Wanderer  Aftermath
by Marcus the Iron Raven
Summary: Based on the Fallout series, in a world ruined by nuclear war, only the strongest and fastest survive, but can a future be foreseeable without a fair governing body? This is a story of romance, hope and freedom, and not to mention adventure.
1. Prologue

Author's notes:  
Yes, I've changed several situations that occur in Fallout.  
Yes, I've changed how the war happened and how the world prepared itself.  
Yes, the dates are different.  
But please enjoy, and any feedback would be appreciated.  
And plese read my other Fallout story, "Wanderer - Wreythe's Vision".  
Any questions raised in reviews or PM's will be addressed in a public Youtube video soon.

* * *

Panting heavily, the prisoner looked back to make sure no one had been following her. She had been planning this escape for weeks already, gathering supplies and marking down what guards were posted where at different times of the day. She endured the routine demoralizing punishment without complaint, not even crying out as the guards had her in pairs or even groups, the bruises on her arms and legs constant reminders of what lay in the shadowy offices above. But now she had a chance; a glimmer of hope in the darkness. Even as the screams of her colleagues reached her, the guards insistent on finding her and punishing her for her 'crimes', she vowed she'd come back and right this most hideous wrong.

"Where did humanity go wrong?" she whispered, looking up the long chute she'd have to climb.

* * *

Back in the late part of the 20th Century, near the end of the Cold War, threat of nuclear war was a rampant thought in everyone's minds, the tension running between the USA and the Soviet Union was almost palpable and logic dictates that should a nuclear war be started, no country on Earth would come out intact, so different countries had decided to develop their own survival measures in case the nuclear war ever occurred.

Committees were created in the various world governments where ideas, both logical and ridiculous, were brainstormed by the bucket load; building spaceships and cryo-genetically freezing entire populations were just some of the more logical ideas, and were thrown out the window, until finally several actual possible solutions were found. France had decided to build a giant armored biosphere, capable of sustaining millions of lives until radiation levels had become acceptable outside. Germany, Italy, Spain and a few other western European countries joined in, and each worked together to build giant biospheres in North Africa, where the African government had proposed to sell them the land, in return for large amounts of money, weapons and food..

In the case of England, they had built an underground city that was supposed to be self-sufficient in every way, capable of generating electricity and sustaining underground plant-life. And while it was never employed, and eventually sold off piece by piece, it was not the only one of its kind. Hidden almost two-hundred miles underneath New York lay another city, built in secret and never made public, code-named 'Undercity'. Construction had begun very early in the Cold War, ordered by the President of the time, John F. Kennedy, and was built by low-income workers imported from Africa, who didn't understand what they were building, nor did they really care. It took the quarter of a million laborers over fifteen years and approximately ten thousand lives in order to finish the project, and when they were done, each of the remaining laborers were given a sum of untaxed cash and told to never speak of what they had seen. When it was finished, and completely furnished and stocked with supplies, homes were sold for over fifty million dollars per family. Only the richest of businessmen and celebrities had the money to pay for the places, and only these people who had the money were approached with the offer, in order not to induce a panic by presenting Undercity publically. However, when one famed professor was approached with the offer, not only did he refuse on the grounds of his morals, but he attempted to reveal to the people of the world what was going on. Whilst the majority didn't believe him, a small minority did, and rallies took place outside every governmental seat in America and Europe. Deeming the charismatic and well-known professor to be a threat, the American government took him out, and paid Para-Military forces to stamp out the activists and disappear.

Even when the bombs fell in 2012, years after the Cold War, only the original list of personnel and VIPs were to be admitted, and if they were dead, the offer was forwarded to their closest of kin. The cream of society and science were given access, and over a thousand people were evacuated to the Undercity, and were given new jobs and responsibilities to handle.  
Undercity had been built in the sixties, and the decorum reflected the decade's perception of the future, with a sort of retro look mixed in with furniture and bedding more fitting to be seen in a Star Wars movie. Sleek curves and the color red was dominant, and while most of the appliances and systems in Undercity were ancient compared to the technology available before the war, the engineers and electrical specialists went about upgrading as much as they could. Lighting was a big problem this far down below the crust, and many people missed the sun's natural light, so incandescent globes were built and fitted in, producing a light source slightly less artificial then regular globes.

Breeding programs were started and the further expansion of the Undercity was made to be top priority.  
While most of the A-list celebrities from Hollywood detested cleaning out toilets or growing vegetables in the underground nurseries, they were cracked down upon by the security forces hired by the now-former American government. One of the biggest problems that people down in Undercity had was that all forms of government were temporarily gone, and one could not go complain about their duties to anyone. Although the president and his deputy had made in down into Undercity, no one was interested in re-establishing the same government, much to the chagrin of the president, who felt cheated by the hand fate had dealt. In order to delegate jobs and duties, a representative from each major field of work; builders, scientists and security, was chosen, and joined together to become a three-member council. Led by their council, Undercity flourished under the conditions they were in, and soon people forgot what the outside world was like before the war. Mothers and fathers taught their children their professions, whether it was plumbing, bricklaying, medicine or physics, for all knew that one day their descendants would have to leave, and forge a new life. People could not afford to allow their professions to die out, unless said profession was considered useless. Actors and actresses became the new lower-class, while electricians and brick-layers were kept in the highest regard. While people could easily make do without new movies or television programmes, circuits had to be made and homes built in order for Undercity to flourish.  
While the original population of the Undercity stood at an even thousand, with the breeding program in place, people multiplied like rabbits, so by the end of the century it stood at over five thousand, the maximum number of inhabitants that the facility could support, and the word was spread that the breeding program was not only successful, but was being restricted. And while most of the people were more than happy to wear protection in sex unless told not to, there were those who chaffed at not being able to raise their own little family, and bred in secret.

Babies were hidden down in the reactor level until they grew up, under the care of several women who managed to fake their own deaths in order to care for the babies, but unseen mutations took place, and the kids, having been brought up so close to a nuclear reactor, were horribly mutated. But disaster struck, and soon the reactors were sealed, with only remote access possible, due to the fear of contamination.  
Eventually the security forces and medical doctors discovered the excess breeding, and exiled over a quarter of Undercity's residents, including those who had grown up in the reactor levels, slowly moving them through the array of air-tight doors and lifts to the surface.

No one ever tried to come back down, or communicate with Undercity.

Even though the scientists predicted that the worst of the fallout had already died out, with only concentrated pockets of radiation existing on the surface, no one really wanted to leave, which was fine by the Council, who were none too keen on letting anyone else out. The Council decided that it would claim complete power, and gave itself the power to oversee or modify any policy and change made in Undercity, hoping that the citizens would be too far in their debt to deny them, but by the year 2150, more and more of the inhabitants of Undercity wanted to leave, and like every body of government empowered by the people, the Council didn't want to see their power slip away, and started to enforce laws that worked 'for the good of the people.' Security in riot gear marched down corridors, beating anyone who looked at them, smashed down doors of the homes of 'instigators' and even reportedly set fire to a fuse that caused the cave-in on Floor 9, which killed and mutilated over fifty technicians, who according to the Council were gathering to try rushing the exit, destroying the doors that kept Undercity safe from the outside world.

No one was allowed near the exit, and any talk of leaving was physically stopped by security. Soon no one even spoke of those who had left, and the thought of doing so faded away. By 2212, not one single inhabitant wanted to leave Undercity, for they had been told of nameless horrors stalking the surface and exaggerated dangers of radiation, and the current Council ruled with an iron fist. No longer were the council members picked democratically, it had become a monarchy in 2193, and power was the only priority.

* * *

When Aimee Radchenkov was just eight years old, her grandmother had sat her down and began telling her stories, stories which had been passed down for generations, stories about the outside world, and the beauty of nature. There were places called 'markets' where one could buy anything he or she wanted, giant pools of water that you could swim in, parks full of green trees and flowers that were beautiful to hold and nice to smell, and sunbathing on sandy beaches where the water met the earth.

Young Aimee had never seen the sun, just like everyone else down in Undercity, and dreamt of what it would look like, tried to feel the glow of the sun on her pale skin. The old pictures and movies had faded so much with age that it was impossible even to distinguish light from shadow anymore, and the computer-generated movies made periodically by the computer programmers were just a mockery of the real thing, for they had only their imagination and what was written in the Council-approved history books to go by.

But Aimee's grandmother would speak to her of these wonders, and would teach Aimee how to put her dreams to paper, and paint pictures of the outside world, as well as speak Russian, a language passed down the older generations to the younger ones, in hope of preserving traditions, and although Aimee had to hide all her Russian exercise books and her paintings, she was happy, and yearned to go outside.

Over the years Aimee would learn more and more, and by sixteen had grown beautiful in the eyes of all around her, with long brown hair to her shoulders, dreamy violet eyes that seemed to sparkle when she was happy, pretty pink lips that caught the attention of almost every guy her age, and a soft smile that would melt the legs off a bandit, yet all she could think about was leaving Undercity somehow. Her parents didn't care for such nonsense, and when she had brought up leaving at dinner one night, she had been sent to her room and told never to speak of such things again.

Aimee's mother and father were both musicians charged with composing classical music for one of Undercity's radio stations, and were held in high regard by the Council, and likewise Aimee was expected to succeed her parent's one day, and continue on the business. Even Aimee's grandmother discouraged her from leaving, stating that with her petite frame of only 5' 3", there would be no way she could take care of herself if the rumors of raiders and monsters were true, and even if they weren't true, then what would she even find up there after so many years of death and destruction.

So every morning Aimee would make her way to the school on Floor 11, just a few kilometers from where she lived, to an old warehouse that had been sectioned off into 'classrooms', with almost no bathroom facilities and light bulbs being broken every day. Schooling down in the Undercity was a tedious process, with teachers who cared more about leaving at the end of the day and drinking up their rations rather than actually teaching the students properly, but they could be forgiven, for the students were even more unruly, for no one really knew why the Council even bothered starting a school. For the past two hundred years all children were forced to follow their parent's profession, so why a plumber or musician needed to know algebra and chemistry was beyond anyone's guess. But school was still compulsory, so Aimee could do nothing to get out of it. She wasn't interested in anything except music, history and leaving Undercity anyways, and definitely not interested in mathematics, chemistry or physics. So she spent her time in class either reading whatever history book she could get hold of or writing little short stories of adventuring to the surface, which she had to hide from any prying eyes, for detection would mean punishment.

History had been changed, as far as she could tell. She had found several books written by different authors which contained very similar paragraphs when referring to the outside world and the Last War. A reoccurring theme was the statement that the Council had always existed, even though several of the longer books alluded to something called a "Democracy", and that a civil war had occurred almost four centuries ago in the land above, yet no reason was ever given why a civil war had been fought in these books, for they stated that the Council had always held power and was never opposed. According to her great-grandmother, who had been a historian, after Undercity had been locked down, the Council had formed a committee of people who would review old history books and change them to whatever the Council wished. Aimee's great-great-grandmother had been on this committee at one point, and rather than destroying countless tidbits of man-kind's history, she had created copies of pages from any book which she deemed too important to lose, before passing on the knowledge to her daughter. From her mother, Aimee's grandmother had then passed on the surviving knowledge to Aimee, and so she had begun to absorb centuries of history that had been thought destroyed. Aimee wandered Undercity, attempting to find secret places to read forbidden books and documents, and worked hard to keep this aspect of her life away from the prying CCTV cameras scattered throughout the city.

* * *

By comparison, Jorge Orwell was just a simple boy, a few years older than Aimee at nineteen and was already well on his way on becoming Undercity's greatest mechanic in history.

Tall with broad shoulders that would put a boxer to shame, Jorge had always been bigger than other boys his age; even in school he was the only one able to outstrip his gym teacher when it came to stamina and weight-lifting. But despite his great stature, Jorge was no bully, and stood up for the little guys, protecting those who could not protect themselves against bullies. He made a great deal of friends and fans every time he did, and even though his face could be called 'plain' at best, girls had always liked him for his kind ways and generous attitude.

However, Jorge wished his teachers thought of him in the same way. No matter the subject it seemed, Jorge just couldn't cope with anything beyond the basics; mathematics irritated him, chemistry just confused him and he found essay-writing almost pointless. However, Jorge loved mechanics and practical physics, and used most of his spare time to teach himself how to apply his knowledge of mechanical machines. He spent many afternoons talking to his teacher, a physician named Thorne who worked in Undercity's electrical grid and knew a thing or two about building pre-war artifacts, such as hand-radios and batteries. The only books he bothered to read were the textbooks on electrical circuitry and the manuals kept by personnel down in the generator grid, which he either stole or traded for. At the age of twelve, Jorge had already designed and built a motor which he then built into his go-kart to give him the edge in racing, by fourteen had managed to siphon extra electrical power from the generator rooms below to charge a high-powered taser he had built, then attached it to a long pole and wired a trigger, allowing him the ability to shock people from over a meter away. While he never got a human subject to try it on, he recorded a voltage of sixteen thousand volts, which was enough to shock the rat he caught into a heart-attack. He found it tough to explain to his parents what they had heard when the fully-charged zap from the taser shocked the rat with a loud crack, but they could not disobey the rules of Undercity, so they had taken the dangerous weapon off him and broke it.

Once he was in his final year of school and gained full access to Undercity's library, he spent the time catching up and improving his knowledge of biology, in hopes of creating the world's first powered armor, a concept that had been in development since World War II. Powered armor, or simply 'power armor' was designed to aid the wearer by boosting strength and endurance through use of servo-motors and electrical impulses through the nervous system, however before the Last War research into the project had not really gone anywhere, with the blueprints and concept images that had made their way down into Undercity during the initial occupation having very little on the way of detail.

Jorge's idea was to create a suit of armor that would power itself and not only give the user superior protection against ballistic weapons and melee assaults, but would also allow the user to survive in conditions thought otherwise suicidal, such as wading through nuclear radiation. Jorge had heard of problems encountered by the mechanics down in the generator grid, about the deafening pressure of the lower levels and flooded antechambers, and used this as motivation to build the armor.

Jorge's plan was a simple one: instead of becoming a mere grease-monkey, as he would be due to his father's low aspirations and status amongst the mechanics, he would impress the entire Undercity with his invention and proceed to make his way down into the depths of the generator grid, and investigate any problems the mechanics had reported.

But Jorge was only nineteen, and although vastly more knowledgeable when it came to mechanics then his peers, was no match for the intellect of a real, fully-trained mechanic, and the only progress he had made since his eighteenth birthday was a pair of steel gauntlets that were powered by small mini-engines built into the back of the hand.

Although they could bend iron bars and crush anything but the toughest materials in their grasp, these had already been patented years ago by Undercity's Chief Mechanic, Yaleson, who had named them power fists, his copy being made of a metal alloy of chromium and steel, so Jorge's copy was much too heavy to be of any tactical advantage over Yaleson's. However, Yaleson's power fists had never become standard-issue in Undercity, and only a few were ever made, so even just owning his own pair was an accomplishment.

Jorge couldn't solve the power problems when it came to the rest of his prototype armor, and whiled away many a night with Thorne and his few trusted friends brainstorming and experimenting with different circuit boards, wires and motors, but eventually he understood the problem was not with powering the suit, it was the connection.

While the armor was technically built and had electricity coursed through it, powering hundreds of tiny motors and circuitry, Jorge did not dare to create a bodily link, thereby potentially subjecting himself to deadly amounts of electricity. So while the rest of the potentially-dangerous, unwearable armor just grew dust, Jorge spent increasingly amounts of time in the library rather than as in his lab, worrying his already concerned parents even more. But the gauntlets he kept with him at all times, finding them a great help when it came to his part-time job of moving crates in the mechanical supplies warehouse, and once he had upgraded them with an electrical screwdriver and needles, he started work on setting a control panel on them which would not only allow him to use them as a make-shift Swiss army knife, but also use them to regulate blood flow by constantly sending small shocks through his body. While he had concerns on the amounts of electricity his full-sized suit could send through him, Jorge had carefully calculated how much power his gauntlets, which he named Fisticuffs, could actually generate, and how he could use it. By upgrading the mini-engines with newer and stronger materials, thereby making them more efficient, he could increase the amount of electrical power generated, and started work on upgrading them.

But although Jorge had a way with machines, he definitely did not have a way with communicating his intentions. When his neighbor's TV has been launched straight through the ceiling into the floor above, Jorge had to explain that he was only trying to statically zap his own TV from a short distance away, and that the static zap had missed, and passed through the circuitry in the wall, letting itself through his neighbour's TV through the roof. Unfortunately the neighbour just happened to be the Council representative from the mechanic's faction, who had been watching Jorge for a long time.

When the rest of the Council had been notified, they had decided they could no longer allow Jorge free rein to engage in his experiments; first it had been the stealing of manuals from the generator mechanics, which had led to power malfunctions until new copies could be made, and then it was the destruction of private property. Even Jorge's parents couldn't bear to show up to his hearing, due to the fact that protecting their son would lead to their own persecution, and very quickly the Council had decided unanimously that Jorge should spend a minimum of eight months in Undercity's prison. It was only when Yaleson himself intervened and requested that he be allowed to punish Jorge himself, and used his tremendous influence to persuade the Council did then Jorge avoid prison.

And all the while, even after centuries of radiation and destruction, men did indeed still walk the Earth's crust, some being those who had left Undercity decades ago, some being migrants from the unsealed Biospheres from overseas, but amongst them was indeed one who had been walking the Earth since the last day of Civilization, a ghost of humanity's past, and the key to all knowledge thought lost. He carried the Will and Spirit required to see the greatest of deeds through, and he was slowly making his way to the East Coast.


	2. Chapter 1

Jorge didn't exactly have the most emotional farewell from his parents; true, his mother sat and cried in the bedroom, locking the door and refusing to come out, but his father's farewell went far less tearfully, and in fact the news of Jorge's leaving almost made him celebrate. Sitting at the family dinner table with his father and younger twin sisters, Meghan and Lilana, his father's stony face matched Jorge's, while the twins periodically teared up during their last meal. Soon the meal was over, Jorge hugged his sisters tight and promised to visit them, and shook his father's hand, who didn't even offer a word of advice to the young man leaving home.

When Jorge left his home, at first the Council wished for him to stay for the time being down in the generator floor, amongst the sparking electronics and almost-blistering temperatures, but Yaleson had pulled rank as Chief Mechanic again and ushered Jorge into his sitting room, folding out the couch and bringing in an extra dresser for Jorge's things, which was mainly comprised of a few jumpsuits, a couple of coffee-stained manuals and his Fisticuffs.

Settling down on the couch, Jorge looked quizzically at the older mechanic, who was busy unlatching a wall-desk.

"Why did you help me?"

The question took Yaleson by surprise, and as he turned to Jorge, a tender smile touched his gaunt face. "You forget, young man, who I am. Mr. Thorne is one of my subordinates, and he has regularly been keeping me up to date with your progress, his most favored student."

"But you risked a lot, didn't you? The Council could have had you punished for arguing with them."

"Yes, but I wasn't punished, was I? Those fools believe they hold power over life and death, but in actuality they hold only death in their grasp. If they had punished me, then I could have just resigned my post, and they know full well that there is no one in Undercity with my level on expertise at this moment of time, so until they force me to pick a replacement, I can meddle as much as I like."

Behind the kindly old man's face lied a cool and calculating intellect, and Jorge could see how much he would enjoy learning from him all he could.

Yaleson's wife, Hannah, didn't mind her husband sticking his nose into Council business, and in fact loved having Jorge there, and as hard as it was for her to admit, Hannah was barren, and having kids was impossible for her.

So Jorge was made part of the family, and he in return was pleased to finally have a family that could understand him, unlike his real parents who found it hard to deal with his independent streak and all the trouble he made while experimenting.

Jorge understood fully what this would all mean for him, and what a great risk Yaleson had taken to oppose the Council, and was even more resolved to find a way to help him somehow in the future.  
Yaleson had no end of stories to tell Jorge about and even showed him key blueprints that had been used in the making of Undercity, scavenged from Floor 4 before the disasters occurred. He saw blueprints of wind turbines, which confused him to no end, a schematic of a giant telecommunication switchboard, which he positively drooled over and even a sketch of something that looked as if the designer had taken a bowl an simply tilted in upside down, titled as being a 'Biosphere'. Yaleson would take Jorge regularly with him as he inspected several projects that he had commissioned, and with him Jorge was also allowed a glimpse into the research departments of the scientists and inventors, where Hannah was often busy working on her side-projects. Hannah, while not a mechanic, was a professor in Undercity's university and was to be Jorge's teacher if he continued his degree and went for a post-grad. But since he was already there, she gave him a short tour, showing him several small, time-saving gadgets which most likely had been a mainstay of life before the war, such as a 'blender', a 'vacuum cleaner' and a 'lawn mower', however no one could figure out what the last was for.

Life had never been better for Jorge.

Jorge made his way from his quarters in Chief Mechanic Yaleson's pristine home on Floor 23 and moved through the ranks of mechanics and technicians, moving further and further down through the level until reaching the end marker at Floor 7. Below that was where all the problems were reported to be happening; flooding and even nuclear breaches indicated by the equipment set up in Floor 7's biggest warehouse, known affectionately by the mechanics as "The Last Stop".

Inside this hub of activity were all the greatest of Undercity's mechanics and technicians, all working around the clock on some sort of way to combat the nuclear radiation that they were estimating existed below Floor 6. Floor 6 was the no-man's-land that existed in a state of limbo, not a single mechanic had gone through that floor in over five years, and until Yaleson gave leave, no one would, so a fence of electrified wire guarded the stairway down to Floor 6, with Yaleson having the only key that would open the gate.

At the end marker, Jorge looked through the gate, trying to peer down into the emptiness that held horrors that even grown men would shudder when thought of; crushing pressures, noxious gases and flash-floods that frightened everyone who came down to Floor 7. Somewhere deep within the bowels of the facility was the key to survival, a method of securing Undercity's position as the last bastion of humankind, and unless someone braved the dangers, within the next few decades all the electrical storage banks would all be brought down, and Undercity would plunge into darkness. But Jorge was optimistic, vowing once more to be the first one in years to open the gate and go down beyond Floor 6, and rediscover the foundations of Undercity. A light bulb on the staircase flared gently as Jorge watched, but the novelty of standing on the threshold had already left him. Every day for the past four months Jorge came to this gate, and every day Yaleson would come and lay his hand on Jorge's shoulder, reassuring him that his time would come.

When Jorge had first come into Yaleson's custody, at first he did not trust Yaleson too much, and didn't share any of his designs or blueprints with Undercity's chief mechanic, but after a few weeks he began to trust in Yaleson, reasoning with himself that if Yaleson did not like him, then he would not have saved him and taken him into his home, so Jorge showed Yaleson the rest of the suit that he had designed, and theorized with the amazed mechanic about what would happen if a link was indeed established with the nervous system. Yaleson's comments and compliments helped boost Jorge's productivity, and soon Jorge had remade both the suit and the Fisticuffs with a chromium-steel alloy, thereby increasing its resistance to corrosion, something which was vital as early reports of the abandoned floors hinted at entire banks of batteries bursting, causing large amounts of acidic residue to seep through the levels, and if Yaleson's estimates were correct, then there are more battery banks that exist that could possibly still be functional that he should try to be scavenge. But that day was a while off.

In the meanwhile, Jorge had something else to worry about.

While helping out the mechanics on Floor 7, a supervisor was chosen amongst the rookie mechanics to watch him and delegate new duties to him. Jorge had felt humiliated that he needed a rookie to supervise him, especially because he probably knew more about their job then they did. But when she entered the room, Jorge had been spellbound. Adrienne was a tall, dark-skinned woman not much older than he, and while most might call her beautiful with her delicate cheekbones and well-endowed body, Jorge had been quickly dispelled of that illusion when faced with her sadistic personality. Rumors floated around the workplace about her skill when it came to both mechanical and sexual acts, and several men tried to raise their own status by claiming to have slept with the dark vixen, but her true lovers remained silent, for they knew her secret. When Jorge had first been brought to meet her by Yaleson, she had been sitting at her desk, a dark beauty wearing an unbuttoned lab coat and reading glasses, her hair cut short in order for her to work more efficiently, and Jorge had been in awe of her. After the introductions, Adrienne had brought Jorge into her office and locked the door, then went about firing question after question at him in her crisp, British accent.  
"Do you have any sodding idea what we even do down here?"  
"How come a young shit like you gets to learn at the foot of Yaleson?"

"If you're so bloody smart, then why don't you just fix all our problems right now?"

Jorge, even with his problems at usually understanding women, immediately understood that Adrienne deeply admired Yaleson, and was jealous of Jorge, so he answered truthfully to her questions, telling her about the Fisticuffs and his confiscated taser, but not about the suit. He told her about how Yaleson saved him from prison, and how he was in Yaleson's debt for doing so.

She had listened attentively, but upon finishing had grown silent and glared at him with piercing black eyes, her stare sending a shiver up Jorge's spine. Kicking her tall-backed chair back from the desk, rolling back a bit, Adrienne slid one stocking-clad leg over another, and stared up to the ceiling, thinking deeply. Unable to help himself, Jorge tried his best to look inconspicuous as his eyes darted at her legs, taking in her delicious curves and chocolate skin, imagining how her melon-sized breasts would feel in his hands. He watched her chest move with every breathe she took, her breasts rising and sinking with her breathing, and almost couldn't stop himself trying to peek up her skirt. The heat from the nearby reactors was getting to Jorge, and his head swam as he watched a bead of sweat roll down from her collarbone, making its way down her ample cleavage. How he wished he could just hold her, to caress her!

But Adrienne had noticed, and couldn't help shiver with delight at her ability to enslave yet another morsel. She quickly stood up and tucked her chair into the desk, leaning against the chair slightly in order to push out her cleavage just that little bit more, before turning and reaching down to pick up a paper that had fluttered down, no doubt aware of Jorge's eyes peering up her legs, knowing that inside, he was screaming in agony. She shook his shaking hand and gave him a delicious grin before shooing him out.

Whenever Jorge had to check-in with her at the start and end of every day, he would try hard not to stare at her luscious curves and sensuous lips, but a readjustment here and a wink there would always leave Jorge with a pocket rocket and a beat-red face.

Adrienne, on the other hand, enjoyed teasing Jorge immensely, and took every opportunity to do so, no matter the situation or circumstances. When Jorge had been repairing the grill on a geo-thermal mini-grid, Adrienne had stood behind Jorge and lightly caressed her nails against Jorge's neck, exciting yelps and grunts of pain whenever she purposely dug her nails into his skin. He had pleaded with her to stop, that he couldn't work that way, and so she had. When Jorge turned to her next to ask for a screwdriver, he instead gulped and turned straight back to his work as she had the screwdriver placed within her cleavage, and beckoned him to take it.

"Here you go, cowboy, come and get it."

Jorge had gulped hard and attempted to grab it without touching her big breasts, but Adrienne had shifted slightly, causing him to poke her in the right boob, making her cackle at Jorge's uncomfortable expression. It was just priceless.

Truth be told, Jorge found her utterly irresistible, and quickly melted whenever he came within a close distance of her, unable to keep his eyes off her long legs and support-less cleavage, and soon even her clearly manipulative mind didn't deter his passionate glances at her.

Adrienne, on the other hand, rather liked tugging on Jorge's leash, making him lose concentration and sweat considerably. She knew that bugging him like this was causing him great distress, and she absolutely loved seeing his face as he tried his best to show-off his skills to an inspecting Yaleson while she would pull suggestive poses from out of the old man's sight.

Now, while Jorge had gotten along well with several girls his own age while in school, they had never acted like this around him, and while he had slept with the opposite sex, he found it extremely hard to cope with Adrienne's sexual harassment, but like all guys his age, found it impossible to tame his 'man-bits', so he just had to deal with it.

Getting home every day like that would test Jorge's patience, having been forced to stay 'as hard as a steel rod' as Adrienne put it, put a serious strain on Jorge's system. Every day he would come home and inspect the damage, what he thought of as the worst case of blue balls in history. Of course since he was living in Yaleson's home he didn't want to bring any girls home, or even 'self-motivate', so he just ended up having cold showers every night, hoping there wouldn't be some kind of biological damage done.

Walking back up the stairs one evening after a long day of work (yet again the lifts have malfunctioned, leaving hundreds of techies stranded on the lower floors), Jorge was sweating with the exertion of walking up so many flights of stairs to Floor 23, and took a short break on Floor 19. Even though Jorge had lived in Undercity all his life, he had never seen a great many sections of the sprawling dungeon, and decided that since he wasn't needed at home any time soon, he would take his rest then explore for a bit.

Wiping his forehead with his hand, Jorge stood and started to walk down the wide, ocean grey corridor, glancing from side to side as he passed the occasional person walking past the residential units. It seemed to be more or less similar to his own floor, just packed with lots of homes and a smattering of general shops here and there. He took several random turns, trying to find a corridor that appeared different, but it all looked the same to him; the same ocean grey paint, the same flickering light bulbs, the same occasional passerby or personal transport going past. Frankly, Jorge just found it depressing.

Jorge usually had a positive outlook on life, but lately with all the work and having to deal with Adrienne, he was constantly stressed out and was finding it hard to fit in properly, and hadn't had much contact with the few friends he made from school.

Another left…

Another right…

Two kilometers down this way…

Mind that maniac on the bike…

Yet another right...

Things seemed to blur as Jorge kept walking, but he didn't mind, the monotony of it all calmed him, and he took comfort in the ever-present finality of it all, compared to the ever-changing mechanical problems he faced everyday. It wasn't that he didn't like working down in the Last Stop, or experimenting in new ways with his Fisticuffs, its just that he wanted a bit more time to himself, to work out what he's doing, and if he can actually achieve anything where no one has succeeded before.

It was at this point he saw her.

Jorge, nineteen years of age, was so riveted by the pair of bright, violet eyes that he completely missed where he was going, and crashed right into a parked executive caddy outside a rather more decorated residence. The loud 'thwang' as Jorge's forehead connected with a metal frame resonated down the corridor, and through his own head, making his ears feel like they would fall out, and Jorge tried not to whimper through the pain.

His eyes couldn't focus, rolling this way and that, and he found it hard to move his tongue in the right manner, but a gentle hand caught his and struggled to raise him. Slowly Jorge's eyes began to focus faster, and quickly he realized he was now leaning against the wall while the owner of the violet eyes was arguing with the owner of the now dented executive caddy.

"… It's not right, Mr. Dunlop, you parked your caddy in a non-parking zone, it's not this guy's fault." Jorge's ears stopped ringing and he was able to listen to what the young girl was saying. Only now did Jorge's eyes zero in on the owner of the caddy, and his heart sank.

Mr. Gary Dunlop was the Council Representative of the Mechanics faction, or at least he would be if he had any real skill at it, but like many Council members for the past few decades, he had gained his seat through his bloodline. Jorge almost wet himself; it was Mr. Dunlop, the same Mr. Dunlop who at one time was Jorge's neighbour, the same Mr. Dunlop who's TV had been propelled right through the ceiling, who persecuted Jorge the most for his 'crimes', and had wanted to see Jorge put in prison for a long, long time.

"Well young man, I see you're up to no good again," smirked Dunlop, ignoring the violet-eyed girl completely. Jorge finally regained use of his tongue, but felt the blood in his mouth; he had probably bit his tongue.

"Mr. Dunlop, sir, I'm really sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going, I can fix your caddy right away…" started Jorge, but Dunlop held out a hand dismissively.

"Boy, you've dented the metal, how in the name of the Council did you manage to do that? You realize this will cost me a fortune, gold isn't something easy to come by."

Gold. That explained the extremely weak metal. But where had the Council found enough gold to make their caddies from? Gold was deemed unimportant back when the Undercity was made, and only a miniscule amount was brought in.

"Young man, I'm afraid you'll have to be brought forth in front of the Council once more, charged with obstructing a superior officer and endangering the lives of people in Undercity," grinned Dunlop evilly.

But the violet-eyed girl persisted.

"Mr. Dunlop, he apologized and even offered to fix your caddy, and it was your fault in the first place for parking there and how the heck is he obstructing a superior officer, he's not in your way is he? And endangering the lives of Undercity, that's completely absurd, no one will stand for this!"

Dunlop stared at the young girl for a few seconds, his steely gaze giving her a once over, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Looking back at the likely-concussed Jorge, Dunlop simply said, "And now you can join him, Ms. Radchenkov."

Dunlop snapped his fingers and a platoon of security guards appeared and apprehended the two 'criminals', gesturing for them to be taken away.

It was already past midnight when Yaleson and Hannah were permitted to see Jorge, in the next cell over Aimee Radchenkov was being visited by her own family, her older brother smoking a cigarette while Mr. and Mrs. Radchenkov spoke furiously to Aimee, outraged that she had spoken against a Council member. Yaleson, on the other hand, had clapped one hand on Jorge's shoulder reassuredly while Hannah beamed at him.

"So, been accused of treason yet again, Jorge?"

Jorge scowled at the accusation and let out a toothy grin. "It's not like they can really get me for anything, can they? There were witnesses; it was that bastard's fault."  
Hannah clucked disapprovingly of Jorge's language, but Yaleson too grinned.

"Come on pumpkin, Jorge will be fine, but we've still got to go through this damn hearing."

But Hannah still looked worried, and her worry proves to be well-founded. Fifteen minutes later a security officer came in, and collected Aimee first. Regulation dictated that women were always to be tried first, for more often then not they were far more organized in their defense, so the case would be quickly settled. As the hearings were private, no one except the accused were allowed into the court room, not even the Radchenkov family, who were now waiting in the sitting room, Mr. Radchenkov trying to calm a sobbing Mrs. Radchenkov. Jorge's heart was pounding in his body, and he couldn't bear talk to anyone, so he, Yaleson and Hannah sat in silence, brooding over the results of the young girl's hearing; if Aimee was found guilty, then not only would Jorge be found guilty, but his punishment is bound to be worse. Jorge counted the ticks of the hanging clock, each second bringing him closer and closer to judgment.

More visitors poured in, some visiting him while some were comforting the Radchenkov family. Adrienne had strolled in casually, freshly showered and wearing what appeared to be the shortest skirt Jorge had ever seen, but he was too out of sorts to even feel any emotion but despair, but uncharacteristically she had sat next to him and given him a hug, wishing him good luck, until he felt her fingers caress his side, then he realized there was no real way of stopping her.

Lilana and Meghan had come in together, followed by their mother. Jorge's mum held Jorge in a tight hug, whispering how she was sorry that his father couldn't be there, rambling excuses, but Jorge saw through the lie straightaway. Lilana and Meghan wished him luck and chatted with Adrienne, and Jorge was just too tired to even try warning them to not listen to anything Adrienne said.

He was sure he heard the words "pocket-rocket" and "roaming eyes", but Jorge didn't even bother saying thing.

The security guards came and escorted the twins and Adrienne out after a few minutes, and after a quick hug (and a goose from Adrienne), Jorge was alone with just Yaleson and Hannah.

It was over an hour later when Aimee Radchenkov was escorted out of the court, and back to her cell. Her well-taken care of hair was hanging lifelessly, her skin had a light sheen of sweat and her body was slightly heaving, as if she was finding it hard to breathe. Her bright, violet eyes were now dull, as if she wasn't even aware of her environment, as she offered no resistance as she was un-gently thrown into the cell, but Jorge quickly leapt forward to catch the falling girl.

Mr. and Mrs. Radchenkov had jumped up in outrage at this behavior, but the security guards had begun twirling their batons, and forced the family out of the prison ward. Aimee's brother Marcus would need an icepack after trying to force his way back, catching a baton smash on his forehead.

Jorge, Yaleson and Hannah were far more worried about the heaving, young girl, who had begun puking on the corrugated iron floor. Jorge was holding her hair back as Yaleson tried to feel her pulse, and discovered it was very irregular.

"This girl has been subjected to torture; I'm guessing electric shocks, what the fuck are we going to do? If they did this to her, they'll kill you," whispered Yaleson, hoping the guards wouldn't hear.

But Jorge shook his head, and continued to hold the now-shaking Aimee.

When the security guards came to eject Yaleson and Hannah from the prison ward, they went quietly, but Jorge caught a look on Yaleson's face, as if he was trying to tell Jorge, 'Don't worry, we'll be back.' Jorge had laid Aimee on the only bench in the small cell, trying to get her comfortable while ignoring his knees, which were now resting in the puke-covered floor.

Thankfully, Aimee slowly regained normality, and the light relit in her eyes, her pulse coming back down to a regular rate. She looked up at the kneeling Jorge, and smiled weakly.

"T-t-thank you."

Jorge took off his mechanic's jacket, and laid it over her like a blanket, tucking her in. "Don't talk, you've been subjected to hell in there, just rest." But Aimee's eyes suddenly darted wildly, almost in a panic.

"D-d-don't go," pleaded the young girl, "P-please don't, they'll hurt you."

Jorge hushed her again, and held her close, feeling sorry for the girl and angry at himself for not stopping her from coming to his defense, but his concussion was only quickly remedied by the medics before being tossed into the prison ward.

She was really beautiful, he had thought, as she slowly fell asleep as he brushed her hair with his fingers, and he didn't want to leave her.

But less then five minutes later, Jorge was called in.

White.

Black.

Red.

White.

Black.

White.

Pain.

Agony.

It.

Hurts.

Pain.

Dying.

White.

Black.

Spiders..

Who.

Am I?

I can feel?

I can touch?

What is that in my arm?

Who's face is that?

I'm being talked to, that man, his name is Dunlop.

I've been a bad boy, I'm being punished. Death?

Not death, life. A stamp on my arm, a tattoo? The Council Department of Forced Will?

I'm falling asleep.

* * *

Miles above the warped torture chambers of the Council, on the burnt-out surface of the Earth, picking his way through the devastated remains of the city once known as New York, the Big Apple, a young man was trying to survive. The 6' 1" tanned male had his back against the wall, his dark hair covered in sweat, slapping his similarly sweating average build each time he turned. His eyes darted wilding from building to building, his fingers twitching on the hunting rifle he had picked up a few years ago, its long barrel kept in a good condition by the loving hands of its owner.

A shot rang out from the third floor of the hotel across the street, the bullet thudding into the wooden table that Dyson Wreythe had laid in front of him. Taking his rifle, he peered into the scope, looking through the rubble of the ruined third floor, until a helmet-covered head peered over a ruined column. Using the zoom, Wreythe could clearly see who his attacker was; a Red Glass Marauder, so named for the red glass lens in their blast helmets, dressed in whatever rags they could find. Another volley of assault rifle fire forced Wreythe back against the rubble, but as soon the fire ceased, Wreythe rolled back over and aimed down the sight.

Wreythe pulled the trigger, feeling the kick of the rifle as the brains of the Marauder exited the back of his head, and landed in a mess on the wall behind him. A shout alerted Wreythe to another threat, but he laid his rifle aside as he saw that the remaining Marauders were fleeing down the street, making their way towards the former Brooklyn Bridge. Wreythe had suspected that was where they had all operated from, but this was definite proof, so pulled out his notebook and wrote in his small handwriting '_Brooklyn – unsafe'_

It wasn't the first time that the thought dawned on him, that Wreythe was probably the only person alive who knew what this city had once been called. New York, New York, what a hell of a town. Jumping out from behind cover, Wreythe shook himself free of the dust and chips of plaster and picked up his pack before exiting the old antique store.

New York was more or less intact, sustaining only minor damage during the nuclear war that had taken place over two hundred years ago, as the ICBM which had targeted the giant city had been knocked out by a satellite's defenses. No, it was the fighting between the rival gangs that had caused most of the damage, turning many buildings into rubble. The Red Glass Marauders, who Wreythe now knew operated out of Brooklyn, and the Los Santos Riders, who operated out of Little Italy, which Wreythe had discovered a week ago.

It was quite amazing what one man can do, mused Wreythe. The settlement of Haven that occupied the northern docks of Manhattan Island had been a target of both gang's attacks, and their sheriff had asked Wreythe for some help.

And although Wreythe thought very little of the settlers, having walked right into a city being fought over by two bloodthirsty gangs without even a quick once-over, settling down and pitching tents even while gunfire could be heard nightly, Wreythe felt it was his responsibility to try and help maintain whatever form of civilization remained.

Wreythe had watched many old movies and documentaries that he often traded for, taking them back to his hideouts in several of the more prominent remaining cities in the United States, and spending many a night watching how the world looked before war had taken anything away. He loved the idea of a proper governing body being established once more, for logic and reason to once more dominate the actions of men and women around the world, but he knew that it was unlikely, it was hard enough to survive, and who would bother trying to establish such a body?

So Wreythe walked his way back down towards Haven, watching out for any Marauders or Riders among the way, only spying a single scout who had set up in an old Italian restaurant.

Wreythe had gotten what he had wanted from the antique store though, a video cassette player he could plug into his TV. A year ago Wreythe had been in the state formerly known as California, scavenging in the ruined homes of the once-rich and wealthy, when he had discovered an old video together with a letter. The letter had been addressed to someone named Mr. Brando:

Dear Mr. Brando,

As you may know, many of the Earth's countries are preparing for nuclear war, an event that is deemed likely to eventually take place. Inside the accompanying package you will find all the information you'll need to decide whether you want to be part of Operation Shimon.

Operation Shimon was commissioned in the early part of the 1960's by the President, and is as such sanctioned by the government. Only four hundred homes are still available.

If you decide to take part, the papers in the package will address the fees which are required to be paid, while the video cassette will detail the actual facility itself.

Regards,

Audrey Flyer

Chairman of the Committee of Nuclear Survival

After having read this letter, Wreythe had wanted to know more, but unfortunately video players had been made redundant by the time the bombs had dropped, so he had been unable to find a single working unit. But now he had one, and would be able to watch the video in his apartment back in Haven.

Operation Shimon.

The only importnt reference Wreythe had found of the name 'Shimon' was back when he was in the Arlington Library, back in the ruins of Washington DC, he had searched the surviving library catalogue for the keyword, until he found, of all things, a historical book describing famous Jewish Rabbis.

Rabbi Shimon and his son had, at one point, hid in a cave so that the Roman invaders would not stop them from continuing their studies. They had lived in the cave, with food and water readily available to them until they were ready to leave.

When he had read that, Wreythe had instantly decided to devote all his attention to finding a video player. A community living in safety somewhere? It was brilliant!

Wreythe doubted that Shimon had been opened, or been evacuated, because he would have heard of such a place during his travels. No, he was sure it was still closed, hidden somewhere, and he was sure he could find it.

Dyson Wreythe would have given his right leg to know where it was, and he had no idea he was only a few miles above ground where Operation Shimon, otherwise known as Undercity, was hidden.


	3. Chapter 2

When her eyes had opened, Aimee wasn't sure where she was. She was lying in a dimly lit, tiny room. It was almost too small to call a room; a better word would have been a cell. Sitting up in the unsteady cot, Aimee groaned as she felt her throbbing head. She remembered the accident between the young mechanic, who she was told was named Jorge, and the executive caddy. She remembered being arrested, and remembered waiting for the court case, but that was all. She couldn't remember the case! And she couldn't remember how she got here, wherever here was.

Groaning again, Aimee rubbed her arms and looked around for some sign of where she was or what she was supposed to do. Swinging herself over and out of the cot, she realized she wasn't alone. Above her cot was yet another one, occupied by a dark, sleeping form. Aimee opened the drawer next to her bed and found dozens of identical, dark green jumpsuits. Pulling one on, Aimee was surprised to find it was exactly her size. She then climbed the ladder leading to the other cot and gently poked the sleeping person. The figure rolled over, and sleepily opened her eyes to look at Aimee, before sharpening her gaze, her electric blue eyes barely hiding her impatience.

"Would you mind leaving me alone, I still have over two hours until my shift," the sharp-tongued girl said, before rolling back over.

"But I don't know where I am!"

Rolling over once again and sitting up, the girl sat up, her features coming into the light; her long, curly blonde hair framed an almost cherub-like face, her pale skin complimented her eyes and hair just ever so perfectly. Aimee recognized her straightaway.

"But you're Miss Undercity 2211, last year's winner!"

Katrina Realer blinked, before laughing unexpectedly, surprising Aimee. The blonde, twenty-one year old beauty swung her long legs over the side of the cot, and jumped down, before changing into an identical dark green jumpsuit.

"Well come on, let's go," Katrina said hurriedly, before opening the door.

Leaving the room, Aimee found herself in a giant warehouse that looked like it had been emptied and filled with dozens of small cubicles, like the one she had just exited. It was almost like the prison ward, except just a bit smaller, a couple of thin, railed stairs at the sides of the hall going up to what Aimee guessed were former offices. The grey walls were unadorned except for a single sign that hung overhead on a pennant

_If you will not help others, then you shall be taught how to help others_

And tattooed on her right forearm were the same words in a small print, amongst 'Council Department of Forced Will'. Aimee rubbed the tattoo, hoping it'd come off, but it didn't. She had been permanently tattooed with those words.

Katrina put one arm around her shoulder and walked her down past several of the cot-rooms, until they entered a slightly larger one. Inside was a small kitchen, complete with fridge and oven, and several rickety wooden benches and tables. A few people were already there, and Aimee was surprised to see people of all ages, young and old, men and women, all wearing the same jumpsuit and same tattoo. Katrina went to the kitchen to grab something for them while Aimee was told to find a spot. Off in the corner, she saw who she was looking for: Jorge Orwell. The hulking youth was slouched over his food, eating as if he couldn't taste, not looking at anything in particular. Aimee walked over to his table and sat opposite him, and he looked up. Shock filled his eyes, and then so did tears.

"I am so sorry, so very sorry." He began to shudder.

"Stop that, you didn't do anything, it was my choice and I couldn't just let Dunlop get away with whatever he wanted."

Jorge stopped crying, but still looked miserable.

"You were tortured."

That explained the amnesia, but she still pressed on.

"The Council can't just get away with everything they do, someone needs to stand up to them, I was just doing my piece. Wouldn't you try and stop an injustice happening right in front of your eyes?"

Jorge's eyes focused quickly, and the tears were gone as quickly as they had come. "There is one happening, and that's what's happening right here, where the hell are we?"

Katrina had already grabbed their food, just plain cereal and a glass of orange juice each. Aimee introduced the two, and then finally asked Katrina the question plaguing her mind.

"What are we doing here?"

Katrina looked surprised, as if it was rare for people who had been tortured, imprisoned and incarcerated in a section of Undercity they'd never heard of.

"Decades ago, there was some kind of disaster in Undercity. There were riots and protests, and the Council was being fought over every decision. Being the power-hungry bastards that they are, the Council started up the Department of Forced Will; a place where those who didn't want to obey could be psychologically conditioned to obey. They hurt us. Everyone here has done something to upset the Council in some way, in a way that isn't just a one-off accident. What did you guys do?"

As Aimee and Jorge explained what happened to them, Katrina nodded.

"Yeah, you two definitely would be in here; Aimee, they're probably afraid you'll become a radical, going against every one of the Council's totalitarian policies, so they're hoping to break you. Jorge, you've pissed off the Council before, I think they think you are purposely trying to sabotage them."

"But that's ridiculous!"

Aimee shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, and decided that if she was going to tell anyone, she might as tell the two people she knew in her same position.

"Actually, it's not. Since the settlement of Undercity, my family has been passing down the old knowledge, from mother to daughter. My own mother renounced this, but my grandmother taught me instead. You would never believe some of the things that the Council put in place to ensure their own power; I'd like nothing better then to rip the foundations around their ears."

Leaning in closer, Aimee proceeded to explain her early life to her friends, telling them of her lessons and beliefs, she told them of the changes in history made by the Council, of the special committee created to ensure no one knew the truth, she told them what she knew of the land above, and how she'd like nothing more then to go up there, and see the mythological sun. But the footsteps outside heralding the proximity of a guard hushed the whole group temporarily. Coughing nervously, Jorge decided to engage in what he hoped would be regular conversation.

"What did you do then?"

Katrina blushed and pulled at a lock of her hair.

"I'm a homosexual."

Jorge's eyes widened for a second before he caught himself.

"So what, I know other people who are, why did they stick you in here?" asked Aimee.

"Because I didn't hide the fact I was, one of Undercity's finest saw me kissing another girl in the park of Floor 17."

Sitting back, the three continued to talk. Aimee discovered that there were roughly five hundred people in the complex, either currently sleeping in their cots, or eating in one of the various kitchens that dotted the complex. Then there were those who were 'working'. Working comprised mainly of mining against the rock, but then there were also the 'sessions'. Once a week, each prisoner would be taken to the back rooms, accompanied by the security guards who would proceed to 'treat' the prisoners, men and women alike. Katrina had already been here for over six months, but wouldn't give in. Apparently a prisoner couldn't leave until they had fully given in, and obtained the favor of all three representatives of the Department. When Aimee asked Katrina what that meant, but Katrina refused to answer, and told her it'd all be explained soon.

Their first afternoon there, both Jorge and Aimee were placed in the same work group, and were ushered along with fifty other people out a pair of double doors and down a winding, thin corridor, walking in single file. Every now and then they would pass a pair of guards, who, uncharacteristically, were armed with firearms. Although most guards in Undercity carried batons, these ones all, without exception, carried pistols and the occasional rifle. These guards would glare at the prisoners as they walked past, prodding them with their weapons, and even smashing their pistol grips down on those who were moving too slow.

As they continued to march further and further down, Aimee noticed that the architecture seemed to get newer and newer, and Jorge noticed that the lighting installments seemed to be getting newer too. Finally the grey walls died out, and were replaced with wooden beams holding up dirt tunnels. Portable lights lined the sides, and now and then they would pass an intersection, where they could hear the sounds of digging echoing towards them. Troops of miners, like them, were marched up and down the tunnels, carrying buckets of mined minerals and occasionally an auto-hammer; a giant, mining apparatus that needed two men to steady it and one to pull the trigger. It was like a cannon, mused Jorge, with a pressure mechanism built in. Every time the trigger was pulled, the pressure would extend a thick rod of steel from the body at a high velocity, smashing whatever it was pointed at. It could smash right through rocks and destroy obstructions, a most valuable tool to the miners, but used incorrectly could be dangerous. Katrina told Aimee of when she once was steadying an auto-hammer, and when the trigger was pulled, the machine didn't go off, so the other steadier looked down the barrel, and at that moment it went off, literally knocking his block off. Katrina had spent the rest of her shift covered in blood, as she wasn't allowed to clean until she finished in the evening.

Reaching their digging section for today, Jorge and Aimee learnt the procedure for mining; Jorge would swing at the rock while Aimee would swing at the dirt, working in unison and effectively. Starting at ten in the morning, the pair had their shift ending at two, then an hour break before having to mine again until six. By the end of the day, both were covered in bruises and blisters, unused to this sort of work.

"How can you stand this?" asked a very tired Aimee, nursing her right shoulder.

"When it's your turn, and you find out what the alternative is, you'll understand why. Most people can't stand more then a few months, it's either work, give in, or try killing yourself." replied Katrina, sipping a cup of coffee.

Jorge came and joined them, carrying two portions of spaghetti, one for him and one for Aimee.

At the next table across, several older prisoners were sitting still, hands pressed together, muttering under their breath with their eyes closed. It seemed to Jorge that they were speaking to someone, but not to each other.

"What's up with them?" asked Jorge, twisting some spaghetti around his fork.

But rather then Katrina answering, Aimee didn't even look up from her food as she carefully span her own fork in the food.

"Those people are practicing Christians."

But Jorge just looked confused. "They're practicing what? They aren't doing anything!"

"Christianity was a religion born from the belief that God had a son born by a mortal, named Jesus, and he was to be the prophesized messiah of the Jewish people. While many of the people living at the time didn't believe in his claim, his followers would build an entire religion based on what they had been taught."

"That's not what these guys are. They call themselves the Followers of Shekeyah, just a bunch of loons really. Didn't you ever see them around Undercity, they've got a secret meeting place somewhere on Floor 13," Katrina explained. "Bleeders think that some God promised them freedom in a land far, far away. I don't get why there has to be a God anyways, if there was, wouldn't we have escaped by now."

"Not true," countered Aimee, "For even if there is a God, who is to say he must answer our prayers and save us?"

Katrin just snorted, but Jorge stared thoughtfully at Aimee, right hand scratching his unshaven stubble thoughtfully.

"Have people always believed in God?"

"Well, according to my family's ledgers, the Council erased a lot of talk about religion from the history books, preferring people to rely on them then to believe that a greater force exists, one that wields the ultimate power in the universe"

Then Katrina's earlier words brought an idea to both Aimee's and Jorge's minds, and turning to each other, they nodded, and then started.

"Katrina, can we-"

Katrina cut him off. "And another thing, it's about time you two start calling me Kat." Jorge blushed, and then started again.

"Kat, can we escape? Has anyone ever gotten out?"

Rather then answering, Kat took out a pen and grabbed a napkin, and drew a rough map. Looking at the map, Jorge traced the route, which led past cot-room 146, and to look at the wall behind the cot. Looking at her questioningly, Kat just motioned for Jorge to go take a look now quickly, as cot-room 146 wasn't too far away. Walking out of the kitchen and past the security guards posted outside, Jorge walked down to cot-room 146, and then squeezed behind the building. But rather then finding a hole in the wall, or a ladder to freedom like he hoped, he found a message instead, painted in white letters on the side of the cot wall:

_To all those souls, trapped down here in the depths of hell, to those who have decided not to sell their soul, to stay alive and fight, steal whatever you can and leave it here. The smallest effort will help, for soon we shall rise against the oppressors. _

_A_

Looking down, Jorge saw a small pile of unprocessed ore lying at his feet, alongside a number of pens, twelve wooden bats fashioned from the beams, and even the heads of several pick axes.

Back in the kitchen, Jorge finished his meal while Aimee joined Kat for yet another coffee.

"Who's A?"  
"Shut up, the guards are right outside!" whispered Kat, "We'll talk later."

Jorge sat back, and rubbed his stubble-covered chin thoughtfully while Kat and Aimee talked girl stuff.

* * *

"… and that is how our great country has guaranteed our genetic survival, by offering places to only the best of the best, we can be guaranteed of a prime genetic stock and a safe haven to live until it is alright to leave again, so from us at the Committee of Nuclear Survival, stay safe, and invest in the Undercity."

The rest of the tape was full of still photographs of the facility, but Wreythe had seen enough, he had proof that civilization still survives, but the only problem was where? The actual location of Undercity wasn't displayed in the video, and Wreythe never considered taking Mr. Brando's tax receipts to find out where the payments were sent to. If he had the invoice, he could track the path of the payment and head to the offices of 'The Committee of Nuclear Survival', but he would have to back-track to California again, something he didn't relish doing.

But there was no rush; the world wouldn't end in twenty-four hours, so Wreythe demanded his payment from Haven to be a working car and fuel. He knew that a single tank of fuel wouldn't take him to California and back, but at least it would cut the journey's time by a fair amount. Wrapping his long, tattered black great coat around him against the wind as the inhabitants of Haven gathered their weapons and prepared to fight, Wreythe was escorted to the exit, and was awarded with a fiery-red 2009 Ford Mustang, which had been pumped full of gas and was ready for him.

Seated in the vehicle, Wreythe placed his rifle against the passenger seat, and gripped the wheel with his gloved hands. It felt good to have a decent car again, unlike all the messed up trucks and half-destroyed wrecks he had driven from Washington to get here. Waving to the gate captain, the Mustang drove through the opened gates, and picked up speed as it made its way down the Cross Bronx Expressway. Just as he was about to switch to the Interstate 95, Wreythe had an idea. An insane idea, but Wreythe never backed out of a challenge, so he turned his car around and drove in the opposite direction.

* * *

"Last year a prisoner o' t' Department o' Forced Will had escaped, that they did. It had taken t' Council over a week t' notice, but when they did, they searched high and low in Undercity, but found nothin'. T' truth was that 'A' had vanished after leavin' t' Department, or at least as far as they knew.  
In reality, A wa' still in Undercity, but he/she ha' taken a new identity. No one knew who A was, but it was known that A knew a way in and out o' t' Department, as A was t' one who stuck t' message behind cot-room 146, only a few weeks after escapin'. Rumor had it that A was back in t' Department, under a different guise, and it was probable, since no one knew who A was in t' first time, people generally kept t' themselves in t' Department," the old man finished explaining to Jorge, after being referred to him by Kat.

"Wait, but Kat said you know who A is, so why are you saying he/she," queried Aimee, but the old man just laughed and took a swig of his flask, smuggled in somehow.

"Jus' 'cause I know who A is don't mean I'm goin' t' tell you," the old man replied, grinning. "That be a secret."

Aimee thought for a moment before replying.

"But wouldn't it just be easier to refer to A as one or the other? After all we can just assume you're lying."

The old man cackled at this, and Kat just shook her head, and handed the old man a plate of rice and beans as thanks for entertaining her new friends. But as the group were about to leave, the old man stopped them, and fished in his pockets for something. Pulling out a standard-issue pager, the old man stood and handed in to Jorge, before shuffling back to his bed and falling promptly asleep.

Jorge looked over the pager; it was tarnished, and the screen was cracked, but he was sure that if he could find a power source he could get it working. That's when it hit him; the portable lights which lined the tunnels were powered by battery, he'd steal one tomorrow! All he'd have to contend with was the eyes of the guards as they walked past, but Jorge would think of a plan.

A few week's had passed since Aimee and Jorge had been taken down into the Department. There was precious little recreation down in the Department, so later that evening Jorge, Aimee and Katrina were lying on Aimee's cot, talking. Jorge had been playing around with the pager, examining it for any further damage, while Aimee and Kat were talking about the outside. Not outside the Department, but outside Undercity completely. When Aimee had spoken of what her grandmother had taught her, a rush of feelings had been released inside Kat, and now she sat and listened, almost tear-eyed from the beauty she was hearing; about a world governed by a fair body of men and women, chosen by the people, for the people, a world where one didn't have to contend with the CCTV camera spying on them everywhere, where a woman could love another woman just as easily as she could love a man.

When Jorge had stood and left momentarily to attempt finding a screwdriver, Kat quickly sat up.

"So, what's between you and Jorge, eh?" asked Kat playfully.

Aimee just blushed.

"Like I know he's a giant, and you're basically an inch above dwarf height, but you like him, right?" Kat continued. "You wouldn't mind if, say, I asked him out?"

But Aimee wasn't stupid.

"Go ahead," she said calmly, like she didn't care at all, "but I'm not sure if you've noticed, but Jorge is a man, so that might spoil your fun."

But that didn't stop Kat, who couldn't help herself. "Alright then, do you wanna go out with me?"

A shocked silence ensued, but after a few moments Kat just cracked up, laughing hysterically.

"You bitch," laughed Aimee, tackling Kat to the ground.

Jorge considered himself a very lucky man as he walked back inside the room to find the two beautiful girls wrestling each other on the floor, before they both blushed so hard that they looked like two beautiful tomatoes wrestling each other on the floor, so they quickly jumped back on the cot, embarrassed.

"So, girls, is there something I should know," asked Jorge slyly, raising an eyebrow. "Who wears the pants in your relationship?"

And with that, the pair tackled Jorge, pinning his arms and legs and refusing to let the giant up.

But the trio was shocked when a pair of guards came in, one carrying a checklist and one carrying a rifle, ordering Jorge and Aimee to sit on the cot. The guard with the checklist ticked a square, then tucked the checklist under his arm and reached out to grab Kat by the shoulder. She made no attempt to escape the guard's clutches, and when Jorge cried out and tried to rush the guard from behind, she pulled out of the guard's grasp, then she span and kicked Jorge in the stomach, dropping him. Jorge was gasping for breath as Kat was pulled out of the cot-room, out of sight.

"What… just… happened," panted Jorge to Aimee, trying to keep himself from spewing his dinner.

But Aimee was already gone.

Walking up the stairs that led up to the office at the top of the former-warehouse, Aimee tip-toed silently, her padded regulation shoes making almost no noise as she went silently, but slowly, and soon came to the door leading into the office. Aimee could hear the bark of the guards as they shouted orders, and she could distinctly hear the sniggering and high fives they gave each other.

Staring through the glass panel on the door, through the blurred window she could make out the shape of Kat, and several of the male guards. Kat was moved to the middle of the room, and then the guards left through one of the doors inside the office. Waiting a moment before opening the door, Aimee silently pushed it open, and peered inside; black, high-backed wooden chairs were stacked against the wall, chains came down from the ceiling in multiple places, long poles were stacked against another wall, next to a closed crate. Aimee opened the door fully and snuck in, ignoring the look of panic on Kat's ball-gagged face.

Moving quickly, Aimee removed the gag, and immediately a torrent of saliva came out of Kat's sputtering mouth. Kat had been bonded to the floor and the ceiling, and was effectively hanging in the air, a foot off the ground.

"Get the fuck outta here!" whispered Kat, but Aimee shook her head, and started to untie the ropes holding Kat in place, but the knots were too well done, and it wasn't long until they could both hear footsteps, but it was too late, Aimee couldn't even move an inch as the doors slammed open, and several of the guards walked in. But they weren't wearing their regular security-armor anymore, they were all dressed purely in black robes, and Aimee wouldn't have recognized them if they weren't all still the same six foot something gorillas she was used to. But they weren't alone; with them came an old man dressed in a white lab coat, with short, bristly grey hair and a scarred face.

"I was not expecting Ms. Radchenkov until next week, but since she is here, and so eager to have her turn, guards, take her and lock her up next to Ms. Realer." The guards immediately rushed Aimee, and ignoring her feeble attempts to bite and kick them, they snapped her into chains and hoisted her, so she was up right next to Kat, who was now crying angrily, screaming into her newly-reinstated ball-gag. The crack of a whip, of leather on flesh, stopped Aimee's thrashing and brought an ear-piercing scream out of her throat, and a second lash on her back nearly made her scream her throat raw. Now crying, Aimee could feel the burning lines the whip had made on her now naked back, her jumpsuit lying in tatters at her feet. The guards reached up and tore off the rest, exposing her, and Aimee just cried even harder, her sobs filling the room.

"Although I find your cries of pain quite stimulating, I'm afraid I lose patience quickly," smiled the leader as he reached up slapped Aimee's face, leaving a bright red mark.

"W-w-why are you *sniff* doing this to-" was as far as Aimee managed get through her sobs, but the leader had jabbed her straight into the stomach, making her expel her dinner, the residual spaghetti looking like some extremely happy worms in a pile of reddish-brown ooze.

"We're going to have some fun with you, little girl, and you're going to cooperate, just like your friend here. I'm sure the abomination will enjoy watching you, with her specific… taste."

Aimee's eyes widened at the sight of the leader pulling on a long, rubber glove.

If the room wasn't soundproof, then the entire Department would have heard the screams Aimee made that night, but alas, they were.

* * *

Wreythe swore as a burst of fire from the pierced gas tank forced him to abandon the flaming wreck of the Mustang in the centre of the Long Island Expressway, not too far from his destination. He knew he had made a mistake now, driving right through the middle of Queens without bothering to check for any raiders first, and now here he was, hiding behind an overturned eighteen-wheeler on the middle of the expressway while half a dozen raiders poured volley after volley of automatic fire at him, hoping to score a lucky hit somehow.

He should have scouted the environs more carefully during the two months he had been here, should have prepared for the obvious deduction that there were more then two gangs operating in the area, but no, Wreythe hadn't bothered with his usual ritual, and ran right into an ambush, his short-lived reward paying the price for his laziness.

"Oh well," said Wreythe aloud, nonchalantly as he pulled his rifle in close and cocked it, "they may not have brought enough people for this kind of fight."

Crouching, Wreythe peered around the truck's cab and was greeted by over a dozen rounds of 9x19mm being sprayed all over the cab. Reconsidering this route, Wreythe snuck to the other end of the truck, and peered around the tail. Five of the six raiders were looking at the head, hoping their target would be stupid enough to come out again, but the sixth raider was missing. Not liking this one bit, Wreythe pulled the tail of his great coat over his prone body, hiding his head under the jacket, and aimed through the scope of the rifle, hoping the raiders wouldn't notice him.

Being only about twenty meters away, it wasn't a terribly hard shot for Wreythe, and he quickly pulled the trigger, cocked it, then fired, cocked and fired a third shot.

The first shot had taken a raider in the chest, and he had hit the ground, most likely dying and out of the fight. The second shot had chipped the pavement near a crouched raider, which surprised him, judging by his raised eyebrows and wide eyes, but the third shot had removed one of those eyes, making him look only half as shocked as his face exploded in a shower of blood and bone.

The remaining three raiders legged it, thinking Wreythe had buddies which had turned up, but the sixth raider had not come out of hiding, and this worried Wreythe a great deal.

Worrying him a great deal until he realized that the sixth one wasn't hiding, he was, in fact, over twenty meters off the ground, having now finally made his way to the top of one of the hotels, and was now peering over the roof, hoping to squeeze a shot at Wreythe. The pavement around him appeared to burst as the fully-automatic fire of an AK47 thundered around Wreythe, spraying him with flying chips of asphalt. Rolling backwards, Wreythe evaded the fire and sprinted towards the building, which hid him from view. Wreythe knew he had only precious seconds before the raider came downstairs to kill him, but nevertheless he took off his pack carefully and lifted out something he had picked up at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas; a working Claymore mine, one of just the several he had taken with him after he had stripped the armory of grenades and ammunition, half of which he had used since, but he had been keeping hold of the mines for a special occasion.

A smiling Wreythe heard the explosion from down the street a few minutes later, and grinned even wider. His destination, the John F. Kennedy Airport, wasn't far at all.


	4. Chapter 3

Author Notes:  
Once more, any feedback would be appreciated, it'd be nice to know someone's taking the time and effort to actually read my story. If you can guess the song that Wreythe sings (yes… sings) later on, I'll give you a pet llama, and don't search it up to cheat!

* * *

Revenge was all Aimee could think about now.

It was the morning after her terrifying ordeal, and Aimee wanted nothing more to take her pickaxe and cleave the sicko's head in two. Doctor Silencioux was his name, a sick, twisted freak of a man who was paid by the Council to inflict the worst mind-boggling horrors on his subjects, who took utter delight in the screams, who craved the perverted thoughts rushing through his brain as shoved a needle into the unwilling skin, watching the tip break the skin and enter the body. He loved the thrashing, the kicking, the slackening of the muscles and the eventual spasms of the nervous system. What he loved last night the most was how Aimee's violet eyes seemed to be an unrelenting torrent of tears, her small, innocent body being touched in places no other human had touched, how her breasts heaved with dread when the Doctor had unleashed the whip.

It had been a bad night.

Aimee had been brought back to her cot, along with Katrina, sometime before dawn after most of the night in the Doctor's care, having him treat to every depraving act that her body could take. It was little wonder that the people who left the Department never wanted to speak of their experiences, for Aimee could never imagine telling anyone about what had happened last night. For as long as she lived, she was sure she'd never forget what had happened, and prayed that a similar fate should never befall anyone else.

Getting up from her cot, the aches and bruises caused by last night's session causing her to twinge with each spasm of pain, Aimee looked up to the top cot, nestled in its darkness. She hadn't even seen Kat since they had both been dragged back unconscious, and hoped she was okay. She had a newfound respect for her new friend, a friend who faced this same punishment week after week, for the past half year. "How can she stand it," whispered Aimee aloud, climbing up the ladder to gaze out the dozing beauty lying there.

"Takes a hell of a lot of work, girl," replied the not-so-sleeping former model, opening her eyes and smiling sadly, the bruising around her cheek a dark blue from a particularly hard slap. "You get kind of used to it after a while, and then they have to amp it up."

Aimee hadn't seen what Kat was put through during the session, as her own senses were running amok from the pain and agony, she couldn't even attempt to see what they were doing to her friend. But she still heard Kat's screams echoing her own. "I guess the only benefit is that we don't need to go to work today, on account of us staying up late," continued Kat. "So get back down there and have a rest… unless you have the urge to climb in with me?" But Kat couldn't keep a straight face and laughed hysterically at the shocked look on Aimee's face, and bid her goodnight. But there was no way Aimee could fall asleep again.

* * *

Jorge was extremely worried. He lost the girls to the guards and he had no idea what had happened to them, and whether they were alright or not. He had asked some other inmates if they knew where the girls were and what was happening to them, but all he received were shrugs and apologies. He hadn't slept a wink all night, and had stayed up, wandering the complex, hoping for sleep to overcome him somehow.  
It was only at six in the morning did Jorge spy a pair of guards dragging two unconscious forms back into a cot-room, dumping them before heading off to breakfast. Jorge crept into the cot-room and found both Aimee and Katrina completely naked. Starkers. In the buff. Totally kit-less.  
Jorge had grabbed two pairs of the identical green jumpsuits and tried to dress both the girls, wincing when he saw the ugly red welts going down their backs, and the horrible bruising on Katrina's face.  
And all the blood.  
He blanked when he saw the dried blood all over Aimee's chin and chest, and nearly tore out of the room in a rage, but he calmed himself down and went about his task, ripping off the sleeves of his own jumpsuit and wetting them at a tap in the corner, before carefully wiping the blood and muck off the girls.  
Jorge was angry. He was enraged beyond all belief, but he kept his head.  
After placing both girls in their cots and leaving to let them rest, Jorge ate his breakfast in silence, just staring down at his bowl of cereal, his thoughts wild and confused.  
_She saved me before, and now, when she needed saving, I couldn't do anything.  
_He dropped his spoon into the bowl, watching as it sunk under the milk, like a giant liner sinking into the ocean water. It really tore at Jorge, the helplessness that he felt as the girls were taken away, how he was left in the cot-room, cradling his damaged ego in his hands and wondering why Katrina had stopped him. He remembered looking up, and finding Aimee gone, and even after leaving the room and searching for hours in the warehouse, the only conclusion he came to was that Aimee had gone upstairs. He remembered bounding up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, hoping he wasn't too late.  
_Anything could have happened to her, and I wasn't strong enough to stop it.  
_He didn't see Aimee, but he heard her sobbing. At the top of the stairs he had found a locked door, but before he could open it a guard had come outside, pointing a shotgun at his head, telling him to just turn around and keep walking. He still felt the lump on his head where the guard had clobbered him when he had refused, and he was pretty sure at least two of his ribs were broken when he tumbled down the stairs._  
_Jorge stood, his taller-then-average frame dwarfing the chair he had just sat on, and stalked out of the mess, his hands in his pockets, and a dark deed on his mind.

Jorge reported to work early, and was pleased to note that the guards didn't accompany the early shift down to the mines, as they were too busy waking up and drinking coffee to care. So he and a few other early-risers went towards the exit, and began trekking down the sloping corridors to the mines.  
Reaching the dugout area, Jorge began watching for his opportunity; there were far fewer guards this early in the morning, but there was also less of a crowd to hide behind, so Jorge had to play his cards right. At last, coming to an intersection between three tunnels, Jorge put his plan into action.

Stationed at the intersection were a single guard, more brawns then brains, who was too busy drinking from his thermos to notice the young man sneak up behind him, a look of pure hatred masking his face. Jorge's light brown hair whipped across his face as he raised his pickaxe and brought it crashing against the support beam right above the guard's head, splitting the timber and bringing the support and a bit of dirt down upon his head. But the guard was only fazed for a second, and tried to shout for help, but a second blow of the pickaxe tore a gaping hole into the ceiling, and with a quick scream the guard was silenced.

Jorge motioned to the rest of the miners near him to move on, and try to distract any guards who may have heard the commotion. Moving over to one of the portable light units, Jorge quickly undid the back panel and sifted through the cobbled together electrics until he found what he was looking for and pulled out a battery cell, then replaced it on the floor, before bringing his pickaxe down upon it; with luck, the guards wouldn't notice the missing battery, and would assume a falling piece of the support had gutted the unit. The battery cell was fairly basic and weak, but Jorge was sure that it was more then ample for what he needed it for. He then moved over to the mountain of dirt, and began to dig. After a few feet, he felt the still body of the guard, and dug him out. The man was dead, having suffocated underneath the massive pile of dirt and rocks.

Jorge hoped that no one was coming down the tunnels, and quickly stripped off his sweaty jumpsuit and then stripped the guard of his own uniform, including his baton and semi-automatic handgun. He tried on the guard's clothes, finding them to only be a little too big, the guard having been bigger then even Jorge, and replaced the gun and baton on his own belt, where several small pouches hung, but Jorge would check them later. He then dressed the dead man in his own clothes. Now came the sick part.

Jorge leaned down and proceeded to beat the man's face into a pulp, demolishing his cheekbones and flattening his nose, pounding at his face until his baton came up bloodily. Dragging the man back to the pile, he pushed him inside the hole he had made, then half-covered him up, pickaxe and all. If everything went to plan, the guards would find the cave-in and the dead miner, and would assume that the miner, being a giant simpleton of a man, had done something very stupid indeed, and Jorge, dressed in the navy blue colors of the security guards and wearing a Kevlar vest, would be able to report the incident and hopefully infiltrate the guards by pretending to be a new recruit.

Sure enough, after using his new short-range radio to broadcast the accident up to the office, several guards came down to check out what happened, and handed Jorge his relieve from duty, which ordered him, "Mr. Wilson Wells", to report in.  
Now equipped with his new gear and uniform, and a giant grin plastered on his face, Jorge made his way back up to the Department, ignoring the confused looks on the descending miners who had recognized him. Only one or two people actually stopped and tried to him, but the guards lining the walls quickly came and knocked those miners about with their rifle butts, telling them to move faster and stop being pests, and although Jorge was fairly upset at this treatment, he was glad that his disguise had fooled all the guards so far, but he knew eventually his luck wouldn't last. The guards all slept in a barracks, and when his bunk mate's noticed Jorge sleeping in Wilson Well's spot, questions would be asked, and so Jorge had to make today count. He made a quick trip to the medical lounge before heading to the office.

Knocking on the door to the administration, Jorge was ushered into a pristine, neat office, adorned with several bookshelves, all packed with books on medicine and anatomy, and a large, polished mahogany desk sitting in the centre of the room. Jorge was impressed, the only mahogany furniture were those which had been taken down into Undercity back when the bombs had dropped, and to own one was a sign of high status. Sitting behind the desk was a scrawny man wearing a lab coat, which looked up at Jorge as he came in, before looking down at his work again. The man's face was horribly scared, and his hair seemed like needles.  
"Wilson Wells, reporting for duty, sir!"  
The man looked up once more, and clasped both skeletal hands together. He was staring at Jorge with a deeply scrutinizing look, before finally responding in a low voice. "…Wilson, was it? Do you mind if I call you Wilson?" He waited for a brief second before continuing. "Wilson, a report came up to my office, I was hoping you could clarify a few details for me."

"Of course sir," answered Jorge, slightly confused.  
"I'll begin from the start then. At 0730 hours, you were stationed at Intersection Forty-Three, correct? Your shift required to be patrolling between there and Forty-Nine, correct? Now, in the report sent to me, it details how you were standing at the intersection, when an inmate came up behind you and struck at you, but missed, hitting the support beams instead. You then struck the inmate in the face with your baton, before he took another wild swing, taking down half the room with a single swing and burying him. You then radioed for help, which came.  
Now, this report was filed by Officer McGrady, and he felt that something was lacking in what you told him, so he dug out the inmate and secured the area during his investigation.  
He claims that the body found had a face looking like a plate of mashed potatoes, and although matched the description of an inmate we currently have in custody, there was no tattoo on his arm."

The words sunk into Jorge's skull, and immediately knew he was screwed.

"Now, of course every inmate has a tattoo, so do you mind telling me what you think had happened to his tattoo?" smiled the man. Jorge thought quickly, his mind thinking up excuse after excuse, replaying a scenario in his head where he surrendered and was executed, or where he pulled out the gun and took out as many people as he could before being shot, but a wild thought came to him, one that he hoped wouldn't sound too insane.

"The reason that the prisoner had no tattoo sir, was because he had removed it," lied Jorge. "As you are no doubt aware, there are a lot of people down here who have gone a bit… peculiar, and I'm sure that this prisoner was no exception. He probably just took a knife from the kitchen, and being absolutely crazy, ripped apart the skin on his arm, taking off the tattoo."  
Jorge had never been that good at lying before, but he felt that this one deserved a medal; it was possible, and had probably happened many times before, because suddenly the man stood up and hit the intercom.  
"Check the inmate's body for scar tissue on his right arm!" he had shouted.  
"I'm sorry Doctor Silencioux, but the body has already been cremated, as per regulation," answered the man on the intercom. The doctor let out an annoyed exclamation, and sat back in his chair, watching Jorge with a very angry expression.  
"Pull up your sleeves, show me your arms," ordered the doctor. But when Jorge did that, the doctor let out yet another annoyed grunt, and stared daggers at Jorge. Jorge had picked up surgical casts and plastered his arms and torso, in hopes of making it seem like he had been injured, and of course his ribs had been aching, so the trip had been even more worthwhile. The doctor just kicked his desk and glared at Jorge, then ordered him to leave his sight.  
It was only after Jorge left had the doctor begun to laugh, laughing with such a passion that his secretary had thought him loony. On the doctor's display on his desk was a photograph of a man with a strong jaw-line and small, beady eyes, and the name 'Wilson Wells' printed next to it.

Leaving the room, Jorge had quickly run down to the warehouse, stopped by his cot-room for a moment before locating Katrina and Aimee's cot-room. Upon his entry, Aimee had shot up from her bed and started whimpering, but that whimpering had turned to a look of confusion as she recognized Jorge. "What the hell?"  
Jorge almost laughed at the puzzle going through her head, and explained all what he had done today so far. Aimee's eyes flickered when Jorge had explained how he had come to find them, and had been given a clobbering for his troubles. When he started to tell her how he took care of her and Katrina after finding them naked, Aimee's face grew slightly red and she whispered a thank you. But when he told her of the death of the guard, Aimee grinned.  
Jorge pulled out his gun and baton and laid them upon the dresser, then pulled off his security outfit and re-dressed in the green jumpsuit he had taken from his own dresser. He opened the pouches and spilled their contents on the dresser, then pulled out the pager and the battery he had stolen. Inside the pouches was over a week's worth of ration sticks, a few flares, the dead guard's ID card, a screwdriver and a few clips of ammunition for the handgun. Taking the screwdriver, Jorge worked on the pager while Aimee woke Katrina and let her take in the scene before her. Surprisingly, Katrina just shrugged and rolled back over. "It's not like we can leave anyways, if we break out, back into the Undercity, we'll just be captured again."  
"But we can tell people, they'll help us, there's no way they'll let the Council get away with this," argued Aimee, almost pleadingly. "There's no way…"  
"Aimee, the Council controls everything; they've got the entire security force on their side, with enough guns and ammunition to kill us all ten time over."  
But a beeping noise interrupted whatever Aimee was going to say, and the two girls looked over to Jorge, who was grinning back at them, the pager in his hand displaying a message which he read out.  
"Yo, ths is A, need sum hlp?" read the short message on the screen. The girls both squealed, even the normally composed Katrina, and they jumped down to gather around Jorge, who was busy writing a message back. "Need help, killed a guard, guards think I'm dead, Cot-Room 76."  
The three waited anxiously, not daring to say a word until a response came back.  
"Come to the message of freedom within the next ten minutes," was all it said, but immediately the trio gathered up the supplies Jorge had, and wrapped it all in a jumpsuit, before making their way to cot-room 146.

Upon reaching the cot-room, Jorge had a sudden idea.  
"You two stay here, in front of the cot-room," ordered Jorge.  
"Why?"  
"Because how do we know it's not a trap? If it's safe, I'll whistle." With that, Jorge took a deep breath, and slid between the cot-room and the next cot-room, and paused. If it was a trap set by the guards to catch inmates trying to escape, he'd not be punished, but because he had revealed that he had killed a guard, he's be executed immediately. Taking another deep breath, he slid around the corner, and nearly died from shock.  
"What's wrong, surprised?"  
"Y-Yes! Of course!" answered Jorge as he jumped forward, giving the tall, dark-skinned beauty a massive hug. Adrienne pulled away from him, and looked around quickly, her hawk-like perception taking in everything around her. She was just as Jorge remembered her from those few weeks ago, even dressed in her usual white lab coat and mini-skirt. "What are you doing here?"  
Adrienne pulled out a packet of cigarettes before answering, offering Jorge one, which he accepted.  
"I was once a prisoner down here in the Department. I had been sent down here because of my favorite past-time, which was considered unappealing and detrimental to the Greater Good.," explained Adrienne, breathing out some smoke.  
"I was told that my 'sluttish' behavior was to be cured, and that I would return to society a new woman, and that if I ever spoke of my time down here I'd be staked. I was down here for less then four weeks before I found a way to escape; I'd found the delivery tube for the packages of jumpsuits sent down here from the upper floors, and climbed up the chute, one cramped and air-tight foot at a time. I was nearly dead when I finally emerged from a fabrication shop on floor eight, but I was lucky it was already closed for the day. It was then I realized where I was, and what it meant."  
Jorge was confused at this last bit. "Where were you?" But Adrienne shook her head. "Where are we now?"  
"The Department of Forced Will."  
"Yes, but on which Floor of Undercity are we?"  
The realization hit Jorge like a bullet.

He was officially beneath Floor 7.

Adrienne explained how the true disasters had all occurred below Floor 4, but Floors 5 and 6 were still safe. The Council used the rumour that it was also dangerous in order to keep out any interlopers, and had converted the largest warehouse on Floor 6 for their purposes. The miners were actually traveling through cordoned-off sections of Floors 5 in order to reach their tunnels.  
"But where do the tunnels go?" asked Jorge.  
"The tunnels go in a spiral shape, slowly slanting further and further down around the perimeter of Undercity. The Council is hoping to tunnel all the way down to Floor 1."  
"But isn't it dangerous, with flooded chambers and nuclear breaches?"  
"Floor 1 isn't connected directly to the rest of Undercity," replied Adrienne, lighting another cigarette. "Floor 1 is actually located another half-mile below Floor 2, and contains the emergency lift."  
"Emergency lift?"  
"Jesus kid, your stupid sometimes; the lift to the surface!"  
While Jorge just stood there with a stunned look on his face, suddenly a pair of bodies collided with him from behind, making the cramped space even more cramped.  
"Hi," said Aimee, breathlessly.  
"Hi," echoed Katrina, sheepishly.  
"Hey," answered Adrienne, amused.  
Jorge introduced all three girls to each other, and allowed Adrienne to repeat everything she had said to the duo, until finally they too were as confused as Jorge was when the emergency lift was mentioned.  
"So you help people escape?"  
"Now and then, normally we just pick up supplies," answered Adrienne. "Me and a few people live on this floor, on the opposite side of Undercity. We have our own warehouse set up there, where we stock rations and weapons in preparation, but it's a hard life, and we can only enter Undercity proper after we've picked up false IDs from our mole in the Council's Administrative sector. I took a huge risk in coming to see you, Jorge, for your trial. Normally I stay on Floor 7, but I knew you'd be sent down here to the Department, so I thought you could do with some comforting. And look at you now, quite the player, aren't you?" teased Adrienne, gesturing to both Aimee and Katrina. Aimee blushed furiously, but Katrina just laughed.  
"So what do we do now?" asked Aimee, crossing her arms, trying to regain some dignity.  
"Well, we could kill you," answered Adrienne, with a devilish grin on her face.

* * *

One hour later cot-room 76 exploded into fire, completely incinerated within seconds, the empty cot-rooms nearby also catching flame, but was quickly put out by the now-activated sprinkler system. Amongst the wreckage, the guards and the evil doctor had picked through the remains, and found two hideously burnt corpses; bones turned to ash and only a few pieces of extremely charred flesh remaining. Underneath, the guards had found a burst gas line, and it was deduced that the gas line has malfunctioned, and had burst under the pressure. The two inhabitants who had been living there, Ms. Aimee Radchenkov and Ms. Katrina Realer joined Jorge Orwell in the list of the recently deceased.  
At the same time, the real Aimee, Jorge and Katrina were climbing up a rope Adrienne had thrown down the jumpsuit supply chute, and were now climbing up, covered in grease, helping them squeeze up the tight chute while Adrienne shimmied up the rope quickly.  
"She's a bleeding monkey," grunted Katrina, panting from the strenuous exercise, and Jorge couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Dyson Wreythe was bored.  
He was so bored, he was actually singing. The plane crash had taken his only true love away from him: his iPod. He'd been carrying that iPod as long as he could remember, packed fully of music of a past age, and it was gone.  
Gone.

"_I had your number quite some time ago,  
Back when we were young,  
But I had to go.  
Ten thousand years I've searched it seems and now,  
Got to get to you,  
Won't you tell me how?"_

So he had to sing to alleviate the boredom now, something Wreythe found quite disturbing.  
He was on the edge of Los Angeles, as he had been over a year ago, and was once more scanning the crater-filled valley for any signs of life. He had once described Los Angeles as being the worst place on Earth, more like Hell then ruins, and his opinion still stood.  
Honestly, he didn't know why he had bothered. It had taken him the whole afternoon to get here, and a good part of the evening after he decided he'd had enough flying. Stealing the Boeing 747 was a good idea, filling it with fuel was a good idea, changing the song on his iPod just as he was about to jump from the emergency hatch was definitely not a good idea. Wreythe didn't know how to cope anymore. But it was the sound of a rifle being cocked that made him remember.  
"Oh my god… is that you, Dy?"  
A waterfall of red-brown hair filled his vision as the young woman slammed into him, dropping him to the ground and hugging him tight. Wreythe looked straight into her grey eyes, which were starting to tear up, and immediately pressed his lips into hers, passionately kissing her, as if Satan's own go-kart was on his tail. They lay there for a few minutes, Wreythe finding this both very amusing, but very comforting.

Wreythe pulled back for a moment, brushing her long hair with one hand. "Do you feel the need to eat my tonsils or something?" he asked kiddingly.  
"Were you singing about me? I heard you."  
"How's it going, Lance-Corporal Munroe?"

Rain Munroe slugged Wreythe kiddingly, her dark-red leather armor creaking from the movement. "That's Lieutenant Munroe now, you know that, you're the one who helped me get my promotion in the first place," and then she added in as an afterthought, "And call me Rain!"  
"Alright girl, so what's going on? How'd you know I was here?"  
Rain grinned, before kissing Wreythe once more and standing up, dusting herself off. "You couldn't have made a more dramatic entrance actually."  
"What do you mean, I walked here."  
"Yeah, maybe the last five hundred yards, that damn plane scared the crap outta' us back in NCR. Our scouts saw it as far as the border, barely traveling above the ground; we knew for sure it was you, after that stunt you pulled last time."  
Wreythe couldn't stop grinning.  
"And uh, I didn't want to mention this too much, especially it won't matter soon, but did you need new clothes?" asked Rain, eyeing him up and down. Wreythe looked down; his favorite black, tattered greatcoat was hanging in shreds, his boots were almost demolished and his shirt was almost non-existent, it'd be far easier to simply say he wasn't wearing a shirt at all. "What do you mean by 'it won't matter soon'?"  
Rain grinned again, and ran her hands down his chest, a single finger trailing down his chiseled abs.

Wreythe woke up from a particularly nice dream involving Rain and a swimming pool full of raspberry jelly, and screwed his eyes tight against the sunlight filtering through the threadbare curtains. It had been two days since he had arrived back in the West Coast, and two nights spent in the company of Sergeant Rain Munroe. Two bliss-filled nights. Rolling out of bed and shrugging on some trousers and a shirt, Wreythe noticed that, once again, Rain had already left. He put on his belt with the M1911 hanging off it, and slipped on some sneakers Rain had found for him.  
Rain. Wreythe hadn't seen Rain for about a year, and the young woman was even more beautiful then he remembered, and far more sure of herself. When he had first met her, Wreythe could have probably snapped her will like a twig, but now she was a Lieutenant, quite the upgrade from snot-nosed Lance-Corporal.  
Leaving the sanctuary, Wreythe once more stood in the heart of the New California Republic; Shady Sands. The world's first artificial city made after the nuclear war, Shady Sands had begun as a tiny village, started up by settlers migrating from across the ocean, until it had become the sprawling metropolis that it was now. Brick homes ran up and down the streets, peppered with the occasional wooden ore even stone building. Great tents had been set up, merchants trying to sell whatever goods they had gathered or stolen over their travels, kids ran through the street playing with basketballs and miniature cars while a flag depicting a two-headed bear in front of the red letters 'NCR' hung from flag poles at regular intervals. Civilization in all its glory, the last remaining bastion in the West Coast, where a person was measured by the skill they possessed rather than any misguided code of honor or their ability to hack off limbs. Wreythe was back in the New California Republic, and for now, he was home.


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Notes:  
Yes, at long last, the long-awaited Chapter 4! Sorry it took so long, got distracted playing Fallout 3 all over again...

* * *

Undercity operated as it always had; men and women scurried through the floors, running up and down corridors and flights of stairs, packing the elevators and lining up in queues just like ants moving through their tunnels. Engineers ran this way and that, fixing mechanical problems and working on new technological advances while teachers stumbled their way to the classrooms, preparing themselves for another day full of disappointment. The Council posted the previous day's Worker of the Day award; Malcolm O'Laighin, a mechanic who supposedly single-handedly stopped a reactor going critical during breakfast, but the technicians and mechanics knew the truth; that there was no reactor problems the day before. O'Laighin likely had done some great service for the Council, such as fixing the Representative of Builder's spa jets.

However, there were those who definitely were not engaging in Council-approved activities.

Dropping down onto the cold metal floor like a cat, the woman flung herself forward behind a stack of crates, head turning ever so slightly as she allowed the interfaced visor she wore to pick up her surroundings and categorize them accordingly. It identified the long, metal corridor with several lights hanging low from the ceiling and occasionally shorting out as being an environmental factor to her safety, but the night-vision lens picked up movement almost forty yards down the corridor, patrolling through a light-less area, and a further cross-scan by the biological scanner pulled up the reference sheet of an Undercity guard, rated as a medium-level threat factor.

_That means he's carrying a firearm._

Once more Adrienne marveled at the newest creation her team had produced after months of trials and tribulations, and tweaked the lead that connected several of the lenses together. She and Jorge had been working on the cross-scan module for the past month since he and Aimee had arrived at Adrienne's headquarters on Floor Six. As she had explained the two on their arrival, Floor Six was absolutely perfect to ensure that they were never found.

"But won't this be the first floor the Council search?" Jorge had asked, slipping in a pool of oil as they had trekked across the abandoned floor towards Adrienne's hideout, but Aimee had explained how often it was that the people searching for something never looked right under their own noses; the Council would most likely conclude that it would be pointless for the fugitives to hide so close by, and would likely never think to check this floor. With the amount of security available to them and the area each floor covered, it would take the Council months to search the entire complex for the fugitives, and with that kind of speed it would be easy to jump from floor to floor, hiding in different positions whenever the guards got close.

But even after a few days of staying there, both Jorge and Aimee had grown comfortable in their new home. They already had accepted the fact that they couldn't go home, and any contact with their parents or friends could lead in their capture and subsequent torture. Their immediate reaction to the hide-out was one of amazement; after spending a good hour picking through the ruined support columns and collapsed ceilings that heralded the entrance of the hide-out, which Adrienne had caused herself in some cases, the trio had found themselves in a warehouse almost as big as the one the Department of Forced Will had been located in, filled from corner to corner with discarded clothes, supplies and tech. Old computers cluttered the rows and rows of workbenches, while the remains of what appeared to be a water-powered turbine collected dust in the corner. Several of Adrienne's accomplices had been there; Zohharrah and Timothy had been working on the interfaced visor's night-vision capabilities while Jeremiah, Nicolas and Havian had been cobbling together some sort of man-shaped robot, occasionally swearing or grunting in anger when a socket on a computer chip broke, or the fine filaments that connected the various parts snapped from the strain. Jorge's opinion of their project dropped further when one of the technicians dropped a wrench on another's head, and had said as much to Adrienne. But there was no time for such idle thoughts.

Crouching as low to the floor as she could without impending movement completely, Adrienne snuck forwards, towards the shadows that hid the guard as he walked slowly away. If the guard turned around at any point, it was unlikely he would notice her silhouette on the ocean grey-painted metal walls unless he was alerted to her presence first. But Adrienne would make sure he wouldn't have the chance. She rose higher as she began running on silent feet, inflicting a quiet death on the guard; his throat slit and gurgling sounds exiting his mouth as he bled out.

The Resistance, as Adrienne's team liked to be called, relied on sowing fear among the guard's ranks in order to combat the Council's military forces effectively by causing as much death and destruction as they could without creating too much trouble. The war on the lower floors consisted mainly of stealing and sabotage, and only the occasional murder was sanctioned by Adrienne if the situation warranted it. Too much attention would lead the Council to order a complete search and destroy mission, forsaking security in order to completely scour the Undercity of the Resistance.

The guard Adrienne had killed was named Blake, and she poked his still-bleeding head with the tip of her boot. She had read his dossier beforehand, and had known he would be on duty outside the medic unit on Floor Twelve today.

"Well you bastard, I guess that ends your fun-filled days of torture in the Department, eh?" Adrienne had gotten revenge of just one of the many men who had made her time in the Department hell, now there was only a small battalion's worth to cut through. Adrienne let out a quick whistle and crouched down again. Behind her, Havian dropped down the ventilation, his stocky-frame thudding onto the floor before sprinting up to the shadows where Adrienne lay. Sweating in his black jumpsuit and blowing his long, blonde hair out of his eyes, Havian chuckled as he took in Adrienne's handiwork, and then gulped as he took in her choice of clothes today. A black balaclava and skin-tight leather outfit and with the cleavage completely revealed was not Havian's idea of an assassin's garb.

"Ever consider painting a red stripe down your back with the blood of your victims?" Asked Havian, wrapping the dead guard's neck with a towel.

"Why would I do that?"

"You remind me of the Black Widow spider, snaring a man into your clutches before dipping your fangs into him." Satisfied with his work, Havian went through the guard's pockets, finding the man's key pass, schedule, several rations and spare clips of ammunition for the AR-15 that lay next to the body, a spray of blood adorning its barrel. "Maybe I should," smiled Adrienne dangerously, an evil look in her eyes. "I certainly have the reputation for it. Want to be my next victim?"

Havian grinned and shook his head. "I don't think so; maybe Timothy might be stupid enough to fall for that, or that new kid, Jorge." Havian chucked the gun to Adrienne, who caught it expertly and hefted it in her hands, waving once to Havian and stalking the corridor further. Havian would make sure the body would never be found; most likely incinerating the body in one of the common trash-incinerators that dotted the floors while Adrienne snuck further down the corridor, passing each home's entrance until she came upon the floor's medical unit. It was the middle of the work-cycle, and as Adrienne planned there was no one coming in or out of their homes, giving a direct route to the medical unit without having to dodge any residents.

Slinging the AR-15 over her shoulder, Adrienne patted her own firearm at her waist with admiration, before drawing it out of its holster.

Opening the stark white door to the medical unit with her Beretta 90-Two poised. The room was as white as the door, with long plastic benches lining the sides of the walls, where a nurse sat at a desk, typing away while filling out a prescription for an old lady, who fainted the moment Adrienne walked in, brandishing her ergonomic handgun. The nurse screamed and jumped under her desk, arms over her head while the doctor in the other room poked his head through the door behind the desk, hearing the old woman's body hitting the ground.

Adrienne wasn't an idiot; she knew the nurse had hit the silent alarm that would currently be ringing in the guard post on the other side of the floor, and she had precious few minutes before the guard post had radioed the dead guard who was supposed to be on duty and realized he was dead. Gesturing the blubbering young nurse into the doctor's office with her gun, Adrienne grabbed the manifest of medical supplies and scanned the list quickly found what she was looking for.

"Take all the military-issue supplies you have and bring them to the front door," ordered Adrienne, before walking back into the waiting room, her gun pointed towards the door while she watched the doctor and nurse scramble from room to room, carrying light-weight polymer cartons. Adrienne didn't like stealing supplies from the civilian-run medics and threatening them with a bullet in the head, but she kept telling herself it was a means to an end.

If the Resistance managed to demoralize the guards and revoke any protection the Council could offer to its main supporters, then the masses would see how they crumble and rally behind the strongest of the pair; the party that didn't enforce slavery upon its people or compromise everyone's privacy, and instead support the Resistance that would treat everyone equally and create a governing body that was voted by the people, for the people. Democracy was the golden word.

Adrienne was distracted by a beep from her pager. Taking it out, she read the short message displayed on the tiny screen while keeping her handgun trained on the frightened medics.

'_I hope you're feeling better; we can't have our favorite supervisor gone from work too long.'_

And of course Adrienne couldn't forget her cover job; Yaleson was doing her a favor by pretending to look the other way all those times she had called in sick. Adrienne had a funny feeling Yaleson knew that she was up to no good, but like the regular civilians of Undercity she doubted he had heard of her alter-ego. While the Council had to deal with her morale-destroying activities, they attributed all of her crimes to random thieves and murderers who they made up on the spot. Until Adrienne had a way to bring the word of the Resistance to the regular population without getting reported to the guards, the Resistance had to remain undercover.

With precious few minutes to spare, Adrienne pressed a button on the side of her visor. Immediately her heads-up display, or HUD, expanded; a direct up-link to the database stored in her headquarters was established, her heart-rate and pulse was displayed in the bottom right corner while a rangefinding reticule connected to the sensor module that Zohharrah, one of her Resistance technicians, had designed and fabricated. If the Council ever got their hands on this technology then there would be no stopping them. The reticule assisted greatly with the firing of her 90-two; allowing her to follow the path the bullet would follow should the gun be fired, essentially making it extremely easy for Adrienne to fire accurately from the hip, or even on the run. It compensated for motion and distance, making Adrienne a marksman of the highest caliber while she utilized the gadget, and was able to shoot an apple sitting on the head of a man over one-hundred yards away with complete ease, and because of her training to be exact and precise when utilizing her equipment as a mechanic, she didn't have to worry about her hands shaking.

Experimentally shaking her 90-two from side-to-side, watching the reticule swing about in turn, Adrienne nodded satisfyingly, and manipulated the controls on the side of her visor to call Havian with the communicator built-in.

"Hey, we're running out of time, Plan A goes ahead."

"Su- I'll be righ- -re," crackled Havian's reply from the static. Within half a minute Havian rushed inside the medic unit, an old M1 Garand in his capable grip. The Garand was an extremely old rifle, stolen from the Council's private treasury in a daring raid made a few months previously. With its accuracy, decent rate-of-fire and formidable firepower, it was a tool of extremely-high usefulness in Havian's hands. Even when wearing a black jumpsuit and balaclava, Adrienne could still see how tense and worried Havian was, despite having been on a fair number of similar raids. While Adrienne had the visor and reticule to aid her in combat situations, Havian didn't, atleast not until Adrienne could requisition another infra-red transmitter and receiver for another visor and sensor module.

"The guards have barricaded both ends of the corridors, fifty yards down each way. Two of the guards are more-or-less decent; they're the ones guarding the left exit, while the three on the right are Jackson, Mickelson and White. Send a quick query back to HQ."

Adrienne spoke each name aloud, one by one, and immediately three different reports popped up on her HUD. Jackson, a short, stocky dwarf of a man was innocent of any wrong-doing according to the quick database search, being a firm believer in justice and human rights, but both Mickelson and White had both done shifts in the Department of Forced Will, and had joint-ownership of an illegal gambling den on Floor Eighteen that traded in the sexual favors of young girls against their wills. Both men had been brought before a farce of a court-martial by the family of the girls, and had been officially sentenced to prison. Unofficially, the officers were just assigned to a different patrol shift and their business moved.

"Both White and Mickelson are viable targets."

Havian nodded. He knew the plan.

Elevator Eleven was one of the few lifts that could still reach the lower floors, provided one wanted to get a face full of radiation should they choose to. Plan A was the escape-plan in order to make it to Elevator Eleven; Adrienne would clear the scum away with her 90-two while Havian pushed the goods on the trolley that they'd take from the medical unit's stockroom. Clearing the barricade, they would then have a few minutes before the other guards would catch up to them, in that time they had to take a right turn several hundred yards down the corridor where it ended, make their way past exactly three four-way intersections, then take the left at the three-way intersection and get into the elevator just down that passage. The entire journey would take a good twenty minutes, passing through several checkpoints they had set up, and while no resident of Undercity would put themselves out in danger to stop the duo, and any patrolling guard would be authorized to use extreme force once the first reports of fire came through.

The first checkpoint would be at the end of the corridor, where a member of her team would be waiting, his earpiece tuned into the guard's radio chatter. Adrienne had been asked if she had wanted a similar receiver for the visor, but she had turned down the offer; extra noise would just disorientate her from her objective. The person stationed at the checkpoint, who was code-named 'Listener', would then join their procession, updating the convoy on the guard's positions as they continued to the next checkpoint.

The second checkpoint, positioned at the second four-way intersection, is where code-name 'Runner' was waiting. The Runner's job was to divert attention by any means possible, then escape through a service duct after losing the guards tailing him. Should the plan work, Adrienne and Havian should be able to get to the elevator and make their getaway without trouble.

As the last of the military-grade supplies were brought to the front, Havian ordered the nurse to get the trolley and to load all the supplies on it. Once the white trolley was packed with the various crates and containers, Havian slung his rifle onto his back and took the trolley in both hands, then waiting by the entrance to the medical unit. Adrienne took in a deep breath. No matter how many times she had done this, even before she had been given the prototype interface visor to aid her, she still worried. If she was killed, or captured, then the Resistance would be effectively over. Until she had figured out a way of rescuing mass amounts of prisoners for the Department of Forced Will at a time, or discovered the secret to effectively combating the Council's political command over Undercity, then the Resistance would be doomed. With the new additions of Jorge and Aimee, Adrienne had discovered a secret that should be able to serve her in the long-run.

At first Adrienne was determined that the only real help to the Resistance would come from Jorge; after all, what use is a young girl who has only been trained to read books and play musical instruments to the Resistance, but over the last month's course Aimee had opened up further, and had told the Resistance of her family's deeply-ingrained treachery; that they had stored books and knowledge that were deemed to be blasphemous and passed the knowledge down.

While Jorge had not wanted to reveal himself to Yaleson and potentially threaten the Chief Mechanic should the Council see his presence on any of the CCTV footage, Aimee couldn't resist seeing her family, and dressed up in a technician's jumpsuit as well as a safety helmet to go up and visit, with Havian as her escort. The twenty-three year old had been thoroughly grilled by Aimee's father at first, concerned that her daughter had been kidnapped by some evil group of people, but after sitting them down and explaining the whole situation, Aimee's family broke down and wept in happiness. They had been worried sick by her disappearance, but the Council had ignored all their queries and pleas, even sending a small group of guards to threaten the family should they disturb the peace in any way, and now they were reluctant to let their daughter go once more. Aimee had pleaded with them to let her go and to help the Resistance, explaining how there was no way the Council wouldn't pick up her appearance on their CCTV and send guards to capture her, so her father had seen reason and gave her consent to do as she wished, as long as she stayed safe. Aimee's grandmother had begun to weep with relief at her granddaughter's escape, and had packed several books into a backpack for Aimee to take.

Both Aimee's mother and father had offered to join the Resistance, it was Havian who said no this time, and had explained to them that unless there was a mass-movement of people supporting the Resistance, then the Council would crack down on the few regular civilians who did try and help out. After a tearful farewell, Aimee and Havian took a detour to the Orwell's household, where Aimee left a letter for the twins that Jorge had written.

Those books that Aimee had received from her grandmother had been the greatest gift Adrienne could have ever foreseen; each of those tombs contained thousands of pages documenting the birth of Democracy and its role in history as it took the place of Monarchy as the major political movement. Equality and freedom of speech were enough to make Adrienne's mouth water, and the ability for the general public to elect their own leaders who would only serve a 'term' made her almost wet herself in excitement. Democracy was her new favorite word, a political system to strive ever onwards for.

"Are you alright?" Havian asked as he jittered on the spot, and Adrienne realized she had just been standing there for the last minute, her thoughts in the clouds.

"Yeah, I'm okay, let's move out."

Adrienne hit the switch on the side of the door and ran out, her visor clicking as it swept both sides of the corridors for threats. Immediately five three medium-level and two low-level threats were established, a low-level on each end of the corridor. Darkness obscured the entrance of the medical unit, which shrouded Adrienne as she manipulated the visor's zoom functions. At only fifty yards away, it was a breeze for her to zoom in on the trio of guards barricading her right, and sure enough, both White and Mickelson were there, armed with a pump-action shotgun and pistol respectively while the dwarf-like Jackson was swinging a baton in one hand, twiddling with his long moustache with the other. It was likely that the guards thought this situation was more or less a milk run, just dealing with the odd screwball or psycho who had snapped and needed some drugs. It amused Adrienne to no end that the majority of the guards had no idea about the Resistance, that the Council had suppressed any information about them or their wrong-doings. Each raid was usually attributed to criminals and thieves, which helped Adrienne out immensely.

Disengaging the safety lock on her Beretta, Adrienne began inching forward on her knees, waiting for the moment that the trio would notice her. She made in ten yards before the lights flicked back on and heard Havian exit the medical unit with the trolley.

Jumping up from her position, Adrienne raised her gun, watched the reticule land on White's shocked face and pulled the trigger fully, sending a .40 S&W round at him. Before she could even see if her first shot hit, she aimed to the right slightly and pulled the trigger, sending another two rounds at Mickelson.

Jackson just stood there, completely still as Adrienne and Havian came bounding towards him, and pretended to surrender his baton before pulling back, his baton poised for a blow onto Adrienne's head. But Adrienne was faster, side-stepping out of the way as Havian let go of the trolley and pulled his rifle into his hands. Adrienne ducked under the guard's sweep and grabbed the trolley, and continued to push it as Havian brought the stock of his Garand onto Jackson's arm, an audible crunch ringing out which was quickly joined by his screams.

"Mickelson isn't dead," said Havian, jogging to meet up with Adrienne. "Look's like you hit him in the arm and shoulder, he's just lying there, moaning and whining, and I really wanted to just stamp his face in with my rifle."

"You bloody well better have not, breaking Jackson's arm was already a bad choice of action, and it shows the Council that we're no better then them, hurting the innocent and the guilty alike," replied Adrienne, sternly. It was bad enough that only serious injury or murder could slow down the Council's loyal henchman, even though it would make the Resistance a lot of enemies later on the murders were linked to them.

"Didn't really have much of a choice, being beaten into submission by a dwarf sounds a bit too much like the Department for me." Shouting followed them up the corridor as they ran with the trolley. "Sounds like the other guards found our mess."

Adrienne switched control of the trolley over to Havian and aimed her 90-two down the corridor at the pursuing guards, only squeezing off a quick volley when she was sure the reticule was no where near a target.

The three guards immediately stopped and hid themselves behind some of the columns that protruded from the corridor sides, unwilling to take a stray bullet in the head like White had, his brains blown out on the shiny metal floor etched into their memories. Reaching the end of the corridor where the first checkpoint awaited, Havian turned the trolley sharply and stopped momentarily. At the corner of the corridor was a diner, set up in the old retro décor; Red vinyl-covered diner booths with white Formica bench tops, an old jukebox played happily in the corner while a man wearing a coat and bandana sat at the bar, drinking a strawberry milkshake while the shop attendant leaned over, a gorgeous young woman with curly blonde hair and a bust that any customer would love to stare down. Adrienne put two fingers to her mouth and whistled shrilly.

The man jumped up from his chair, thanked the beautiful lady for her company and flipped her a generous tip. Rushing out of the diner, the man readjusted his red bandana while Adrienne winked. "So that's why you volunteered for this checkpoint, eh?"

"It's not like I could pass up a dame like her," answered Timothy Spielson, his yellow eyes reflecting the ceiling lights.

"Who the hell says dame these days, Tim?" Havian snorted, pushing the trolley again while Adrienne and Timothy followed.

"Don't call me Tim, makes me sound like a little kid, I'm older then the both of you." Adrienne rolled her eyes at this while Timothy raised one side of the bandana exposing the small listening device attached to his ear, and began dialing different frequencies. Ever since he joined it was a running competition amongst the Resistance members to see who could find out how old Timothy was first; while he appeared to be not too much older then the others, Timothy didn't engage in similar activities as them, preferring to spend his time playing chess or talking with the old retirees. He would chat up women from any age from twenty to fifty, and with his chiseled good looks and amused demeanor his bed was rarely empty. Last Adrienne heard, the jackpot for guessing his age had risen to a nice five-thousand credits; enough for a personal computer or a good bribe.

"It's your lucky day Chief, the snippers you left are too scared to follow, and have requested backup before following us. The big boss is ordering men to Elevator Ten," reported Timothy, having located the right frequency. So far everything was going to plan; Adrienne had hoped the guards would mistake the convoy for heading towards the nearest lift, Elevator Ten that was only two blocks away, and it was gain them an extra few minutes before the guards had realized the supply wagon wasn't heading there after all.

The procession passed the first four-way intersection, getting scared looks from the rare civilian who saw them. They got half-way to the next intersection before Timothy reported again, this time stating that the guards had received their back up, and were now hurtling towards them in their caddies, passing checkpoint one in just a minute, and would reach them in less then five. The news startled Adrienne.

"Where'd they get the caddies from? Didn't Zohharrah say that Floor Twelve's post's caddies were out of commission?" She asked.

Havian picked up the pace. "What's the plan then?"

Adrienne thought it was a good question. If they kept going as it is, it was likely at the caddies would catch them as soon as they passed the second checkpoint unless something really got their attention. Manipulating the visor, she accessed a map on her HUD and began searching for clues on what to do.

The second checkpoint was coming up in less then five minutes, where the Runner would be waiting at the hydrant on the corner. All of the buildings were residential, with no commercial businesses operating on that stretch of land, therefore no place to hide. The trolley could only be transported on a lift, and without bags or backpacks there was no way to scuttle the supplies and escape through service ducts. Plan B had been a backup plan incase the guards had followed them on foot, so that was out of the picture, what was left was Plan C.

"Tim, you and I will stay back at the next checkpoint while Havian makes sure the lift gets to were it needs to go."

Tim reached to his side holster and pulled out a beautiful Dan Wesson PPC; a splendid beast of a revolver that fired .357 Magnum rounds with a nice punch. He fitted a custom-made scope to the rail and loaded the chamber while he continued running. Adrienne had chided him numerous times about the inappropriateness of using the PPC, stating that it would be an ill-choice in a firefight and that a larger clip size would have been better, but Timothy had just brushed aside her concerns, saying that one doesn't need a bigger clip when six bullets are enough.

By the time they reached the next checkpoint they could hear the caddies buzzing down the corridor, each caddy carrying three guards each armed to the teeth. The Council had permitted them to use extreme force, and extreme force they would use. Crossing the intersection, the Runner jumped from out behind the hydrant.

"Change of plan, you and Havian are to run for the lift," shouted Adrienne, and Aimee snapped to, her lithe body filling out the running shorts and sports bra well. Aimee had been chosen as the fastest member of the Resistance, but now she had to fill a different role. Grabbing the handles of the trolley, allowing Havian to hold his rifle once more, the pair ran. Adrienne watched them for a moment, and then signaled Timothy to take position behind the corner opposite from her own position.

The moment the first caddy came past; its passengers holding their firearms at the ready, Adrienne aimed with her 90-two while Timothy did the same with his PPC. As soon as the caddy cleared the intersection they fired twice; Adrienne's first round clipping the driver in the head while the second ricocheted off the shoulder of an assault-rifle toting passenger. The caddy's tires popped, no doubt because of Tim's shooting, and span out of control, tumbling onto its side and blocking the centre of the corridor.

The second caddy smacked right into the wreckage of the first, ramming right into the passengers who were attempting to jump out. Screams echoed down the corridor as the passengers were put out of the fight. All three guards jumped out from the second caddy, while the final caddy parked just before the intersection, out of Adrienne's field of view.

Adrienne jumped out of the way of a shotgun blast and hid behind the hydrant, the sound of metal on metal as assault rifle fire sprayed at her. Opposite, Timothy had kicked in the door of someone's home, and hid inside, popping out to fire at the guards.

A guard fell as Timothy's aim proved true, his knee a mass of blood and gore while his compatriots kept Adrienne under fire, not allowing her any relief. The guards from the last caddy pushed their caddy along the side of the corridor, stopping it as it peeked out from behind the corner Adrienne was nearest to. The guards from the second caddy ran to join the third squad, and planned their assault while covering both Adrienne and Timothy. Each time Timothy popped out to fire, they would return a hailstorm of lead and shells, making him curse and forcing him back into cover.

"Fuck!"

Adrienne heard Tim cry out and knew the worst had probably just happened. Knowing that she now had very little time left, Adrienne unstrapped a small package from her shin. Inside the wrapped brown paper was a little surprise she had cooked up.

"Tim, duck!"

Adrienne loaded a fresh clip into her 90-two and flung the package over the hydrant, into the midst of the group of guards still remaining. Immediately they all jumped for cover, some sprinting down the way the caddies had come while others jumped into or around the caddies themselves. Adrienne's plan had worked; the guards had assumed that Adrienne was throwing some sort of explosive, while in actuality that package just contained a piece of scrap metal. Adrienne calmly stood up, and leveled her handgun at the nearest guard.

Very few people in Undercity knew what a vintage .40 caliber Smith & Wesson round looked like; even fewer knew what it felt like to have your brains blown out by one. This particular guard, for a single nanosecond, knew how it felt. The body fell backwards, sliding against the caddy, leaving a bloody streak. The two guards inside the caddy jolted at the sound, and scrambled for their guns, but the two idiots had thrown them aside when jumping into the caddy, slumping into the seats as Adrienne clocked them both over the head with the butt of her 90-two. Adrienne turned her head to the last guard, the reticule swinging with the motion, but she holstered the weapon as she realized the guard had wet himself, and was sitting against the second caddy, his gun clicking while he stared at the destruction Adrienne had wrought in just a few seconds.

"Tim, you alright?" Adrienne raced across the intersection, hearing no answer. The entranceway where Tim had taken cover was coated by a spray of blood, which led into the dark home. Walking inside, Adrienne flicked on the lights.

"Jeez that's bright," exclaimed Timothy weakly, his handsome features marred by pain while he clutched his shoulder with his left hand. His top was completely stained with blood, and his skin was looking quite pale already.

"Fucking hell, let's get you back down to base; you'll be right as rain in no time man." Adrienne moved forward to help him up, pulling his left arm around her neck. They managed to hobble for a moment, getting to the door, before stumbling and nearly tripping from the effort.

"It's no use," panted Timothy, sucking in air. "It's a bitch of a hit."

"Shut up man, just suck it in. Wait by the door; I'll go get one of the caddies."

"It's not like I can go anywhere," called out Timothy while Adrienne ran and stole one of the caddies. As she sat in the blood-slicked seat, she could hear the guard post on the radio asking for a status update. Ignoring the chatter, Adrienne backed up the caddy around the corner, waited for Timothy to hope into the passenger's seat before gunning the pedal, sending them skidding down the corridor towards Elevator Eleven.

* * *

"She's still a bit pissed off about last time," warned Lieutenant Rain Munroe, escorting Wreythe towards the Capitol Building in Shady Sands, the dirt under their shoes bringing up clouds of dust as they trudged through the crowds of migrants and settlers. Wreythe chafed in his grey suit, one of the few pre-war fashions that couldn't be mass-produced anymore. He was used to wearing his traveling gear, being weighed down by his backpack and gadgets, but now the only thing he was carrying was his wallet and M1911, making him feel extremely vulnerable. Even Rain wasn't allowed to carry her AWSM-F sniper rifle, and was only carrying her own Ruger Redhawk revolver and service baton, but unlike Wreythe she was permitted to wear her body armor.

They entered the large clear double doors and stopped while security frisked them over twice, stopping only to tag Wreythe's semi-automatic. Walking through the white-tiled entrance hall, Wreythe admired several of the recovered portraits that were hung up while Rain talked to an acquaintance that had been in attendance of the last government meeting. He stood in front of a painting that hung slightly lopsided, and admired the artist's dedication to using every color of the rainbow. Greens, blues and browns were brushed almost sloppily onto the canvas, while clouds of red and purple dotted the sky. A skyline of black and gold filled the horizon while a lone man in blue with his brown dog walked along a starry road. The picture appealed to Wreythe for some reason; he felt as if his own journey was a thing of night and dreams, and he had the urge to ask Rain if she could somehow acquire a copy. Rain just ignored him.

"Tandi's been screaming at my supervisor since yesterday apparently. You know when you were banished, that was sort of until she actually let you back into our borders, you know? And she's pissed at me for taking you all the way here to Shady Sands."

"Yeah well, I had a good reason," replied Wreythe sheepishly, a grin crossing his face.

Rain just stared at him. "You stole a passenger plane and crashed it in our borders. A passenger plane that probably hasn't flown for two hundred years and that will now never fly again. You realize not everyone knows how to fly those things? I wouldn't be surprised if Tandi just goes and tortures the living shit outta you."

Wreythe raised an eyebrow and grinned even wider.

Wreythe and Rain were ushered into a large chamber, walking past several aisles of wooden benches before coming to a stop at a pair of lecterns. Facing the lecterns was a raised platform with a podium erected on it, a straight leather-backed chair facing away, towards the giant flag that hung on the wall. The flag depicted a two-headed bear in front of a white and red flag, with a small star in one corner. It was a flag that all the men and women in this room would die for, would knowingly sacrifice their lives if they knew that they could save the great federation that they helped run. A large crowd of people ere seated in the benches, chattering about the day's gossip before noticing the pair of people entering the room.

Men and women alike began to boo derisively at Wreythe, calling him names and insulting his manhood.

"Looks like they still haven't forgiven you," whispered Rain, gesturing to the crowd.

"I saved their damn lives," replied Wreythe angrily. "If it wasn't for me they'd all be dead, food for the fucking crows. Is money really more important then lives to these people?"

Rain didn't have time to answer; the security officer had walked into the court from a side door by the large podium, and announced in a loud, clear voice that all should rise.

A tall woman entered the court behind the officer, dressed in orange robes of state. Her once-black hair was kept long and loose while her deep brown eyes glared straight at Wreythe; the anger seething behind them kept barely in check. Settling into the leather chair, Tandi shuffled some papers sitting in front of her, then placed her hands together in front of her, fingers entwined, before speaking in a firm, cold voice that seemed to echo in the large chamber.

"On the twenty-second day of October an aircraft was spotted by the Rangers heading for our borders. The aircraft, which we believed to be a Boeing 747, was flying rather erratically, and a team was scrambled to meet the plane as it touched down. Rather than landing, the aircraft was abandoned while the pilot jumped to safety, and the plane eventually crash-landed just outside Adytum. Are you the pilot of that aircraft?"

Wreythe answered truthfully. "Yes."

"And is your name Dyson Wreythe, the same Dyson Wreythe who came to this town once before, who 'championed' our cause and took arms against the raiders living in the Ironox Mine, a mine lying within the borders controlled by the New California Republic and the source of much of our gold supply? The same 'champion' who completely destroyed the gold mine, which therefore rendered our gold-backed money useless when the economy span out of control?"

Wreythe could already see the outcome of this line of questioning; Tandi would appear strong and uncompromising in front of her followers, further backing her tough policies when it comes to punishing wrong-doers, while Wreythe's image as a 'bad guy' could be reinforced.

"Yes but-"

Tandi interrupted him, plowing on. "After destroying a key component of our economy, you were banned from returning to any part of the New California Republic under the pain of death, to be carried out by firing squad."

"But you see-"

"I hereby sentence you to be killed by firing squad tomorrow morning. Guards, take him away!"

The mob of angry people began to crowd around him, jeering and screaming at Wreythe while a pair of red-clad guards struggled through the crowd, pushing people away with their batons. Rain was shouting for order, for Wreythe to be heard and allowed to defend himself, but Tandi would hear none of it, and smashed down with her gavel to drown out Rain's pleas. Even the women and children punched and kicked Wreythe as he was led out the doors into the entrance hall, and an elderly old man smacked Wreythe straight on the face with his cane, breaking his nose savagely, blood pouring everywhere, but even then the crowd didn't stop, not even as he was led outside where an even larger group awaited him. The guards let go of Wreythe in the chaos, and bolted, while the mob bore down Wreythe, clubs and stones in hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:  
Here we go, chapter five already!  
I've come to the realization that the story is becoming quite complicated with the amount of sub-stories and characters. I'm working on a solution even as I type this (well actually, I'm in the middle of answering questions for my youtube video).  
Enjoy!

* * *

"I can't believe I'm even saying this, but I can't hold it in any more. I want you," purred the chocolate beauty seductively, allowing the slip of a night dress fall from her body, revealing her buxom breasts and black panties. Her tongued probed her bottom lip slowly, a bead of sweat making its way down her cleavage in agonising slowness, trapping his entire attention in that one moment.  
Slipping a finger inside the waistband, she drew it out a few inches, then let it snap back audibly, winking at him as she began to walk towards him. "I want you here, right now. Hold out your hands, big boy."

Holding out his shaking hands, he felt Adrienne's firm breasts press into his hands, their warmth and fullness making him open and close his mouth like a fish on water. But she didn't stop there. Adrienne took him by his elbows and leaned in, bringing her lips to his neck while her leg moved up close to his manhood, the warmth of her thigh driving him absolutely crazy.

"Please… please… please," he begged, his eyes closing. He longed to feel her body up against his, for the two to become one.

A jolt woke him out of his dream, and Jorge Orwell nearly flipped out from the noise.

Having awoken to the sounds of alarms and flashing red lights, Jorge tried to cover the violent light and sound from his sensitive senses as he struggled to pull his blankets off. Shaking his head, his shock of black hair now having grown to what he deemed an unreasonable length, he stared blearily around the long warehouse  
"What's going on?" wondered Jorge, his head only beginning to come out of his wonderful dream. A short, olive-skinned young woman with long, curly black hair wearing a gypsy scarf threw a small package at him. Flashing her very dark eyes in annoyance at his lack of movement, Zohharrah's bangles jingled as she quickly strode towards the bunk bed and pulled the sleepy Jorge up. "Get up, get up! Something has gone wrong; we've got to get to Elevator Eleven as soon as possible."

Pulling up a pair of technician overalls he had picked up while staying in the Resistance's warehouse, identical to Zohharrah's own, Jorge dressed quickly and tore open the package, revealing an old but sturdy service revolver. Grasping the weapon with awe, he jumped as a flying holster smacked him square on the forehead.  
"Hurry up, we don't have much time, the others are in trouble."

Zohharrah pulled Jorge into a run, explaining the situation while they raced out of the warehouse and pelted down the corridor to where Elevator Eleven connected to their floor. "Someone screwed up somewhere; the guards were far more ready than we thought. Adrienne and Timothy got in a damn fire-fight with a bunch of the guards; I heard it over the receiver. Neither Havian nor Aimee was mentioned, so they should be coming shortly as far as I can tell."

"So what are we going to do?"

Zohharrah looked at him pointedly, her lips tight with worry. At first Jorge hadn't trusted the gypsy girl, having listened carefully in his history classes now and then. He had been fed stories on how the end of the world had been caused by the Romani and the Jewish people, each child being told to loathe the memory of each of the 'Destroyer' races, but Aimee had sat him down during their third evening in the Resistance and enlightened him on the error of his ways. It was only after that did Jorge finally start paying attention to Zohharrah, and learnt that gypsies were far different to the baby-sacrificing cultists the Council had made them out to be. Zohharrah's great-grandfather had been a prominent _rom baro _leading a large clan of gypsies that operated in California. The _rom baro _had conned a rich American businessman out of his family's reserved home in Undercity, and had quickly moved himself, his wife and their single son into the facility.

While neither of the 'Destroyer' races had many representatives, the Council didn't feel the need to entirely quash the remainder as long as they kept their culture hidden from the public eye. No one really knew why, least of all Zohharrah's family, but rumour had it that it was the same _rom baro _that had also uncovered each of the security codes to Undercity's precious generators and air cycling units, and that if the Council ever dared to make a move against the gypsies, then they would effectively take out the rest of the population with them.

As it turned out, the rumours were true; Zohharrah had laughed about them when she had been interrogated and even began to recite a few codes from memory.

Clearing his head, Jorge stared dumbly at the firearm in his hand and he ran as fast as he could to keep up with the agile gypsy girl, her bangles and bracelets barely making a noise as she almost seemed to fly down the corridor. Nearing the lift, Zohharrah fumbled with a small pouch which she had been carrying on her back, pulling out two welder's shades. Handing one to Jorge, she pulled off her scarf, freeing her long curls before pulling the welder's shade on while Jorge followed suit. Now they both looked just like any technician, going home from a day of work.

"Slip the gun into your pocket, if we get there too late we don't want to be caught," ordered Zohharrah, doing the same with her own pistol. Neither one was trained at firearms, but at the very least they could provide a distraction if need be. "Floor Twelve is likely to be buzzing with activity right now, and to be honest I doubt none of us will be injured, or even killed."  
Kneeling down next to the elevator doors, Zohharrah stared thoughtfully at the wall for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth between various spots on the wall, as if she expected it to fall away and reveal its secrets to her very thoughts. At last she stood, then lined one of her steel-toed boots with the wall. Giving it an almighty kick, Jorge was surprised to see the metal simply flake away, as if it was just plaster. "Fake wall," explained Zohharrah, not even looking at Jorge. "Each elevator has them; they were built so that the technicians can access the surveillance in each lift. You're supposed to just dig into the side of a panel with a knife and slide it to the side, but time is of the essence."

Peering into the wall cavity, Jorge watched as Zohharrah deftly brushed aside a sea of cables and tapped in a series of numbers into a glowing keypad. Immediately a green light flashed, and a small archaic monitor descended slowly into the cavity. While much of the tech in Undercity have been upgraded, or at least improved in some way, it seemed this was one gadget that never was. The black screen was empty except for a small, blinking green bar.

"A command line?" Jorge asked incredulously. "Even the computers in the school are more sophisticated that this." Zohharrah didn't bother to answer, so Jorge kept silent as the gypsy punched in a series of commands, her fingers dancing over the keys while line after line of code was entered and activated, sending more and more lights and letters cascading down the screen in a bright mash, but Zohharrah seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Within just a few seconds, the alarm lights flashing down the corridors, as well as the klaxons themselves, were turned off. A second later the screen jumped to life again, this time displaying a rudimentary map of what appeared to be Floor Twelve.

Hitting a few more keys, a series of red dots started to blink slowly down the corridors, some moving faster then others. Another set of commands then made the map display several blue dots; two moving side-by-side down the longest corridor to Elevator Eleven while the other two were already at the elevator doors. "I hacked the cameras," explained Zohharrah to an amazed Jorge. "We don't have much time; those two at the elevator can't head down without the other two; the elevator takes too long getting back up."

Jorge studied the map intently, recognising specific intersections from the planning session in the Resistance's headquarters as well as his own reconnaissance of the area made previously. "Why don't they go take Elevator Fourteen from Floor Thirteen first up to Floor Twenty-three, then drop down to Floor Seven on Elevator Three? From there we can just drop down one level through a chute and that's it. Won't that keep the guards from finding our trail?"

"It was an idea Adrienne and I had bounced around previously, but it left too much for chance. If the elevators were not already at the floors, and if there were guards patrolling each corridor already just in case, then…" Zohharrah trailed off, blinking as a full four red dots disappeared savagely, before shaking her head and turning to Jorge. "You head up to Floor Twelve and help out the guys, tell them the new plan. I'm going to hit Floor Twenty-three and make sure that elevator is waiting for them. Hopefully as long as we stay one step ahead the guards will find it too difficult to track us."

Zohhrrah stood, and grabbed Jorge's wrist for a moment before letting go. "Good luck," she murmured, before breaking her grip and pelting away.

Standing up, Jorge hit the button on the elevator while Zohharrah ran down the corridor towards the next set of elevators.

A few floors above them, the situation was quickly escalating into a possible bloodbath as countless guards began to give chase to the Runner and her cargo. The guards had first come driving their small caddies, zooming down the corridors towards the running pair but they were easily taken out; a popped tire at high-speeds meant incapacitation and serious injury to everyone aboard as the caddies would roll over and over until erupting into flames. Then they came on foot, hiding behind the burning wreckage as they sought cover from the precise death Havian would bring to them. Sprays of lead and fire peppered the walls of the corridors like the storms of Armageddon itself as the blonde-haired Havian jumped behind a steel garbage bin, shots ringing off the metal surface as he sank down onto one knee, pulling the balaclava off his face and bringing the scope of his M1 to his right eye.

Aiming down the sight, he saw his next target; a portly guard who had ducked inside a doorway to one of the homes along the corridor. The poor guard had made a inaccurate estimate of his own body size and more then a little of his belly was sticking out of cover, as well as his left foot. At a distance of fifty feet, it wasn't a difficult shot at all.

"Hey princess, can you please make a fucking move on already, I'm getting tired all this," Havian shouted, not even waiting to see if his shot took the guard in his exposed foot or not. Turning around, he ran after Aimee and the trolley whose progress had been far too slow for Havian's liking.

"Stop calling me that! I'm moving as fast as I can, give me a break!" Aimee's violet eyes flashed in annoyance as she turned to scream over the guard's returning volley of fire at Havian, who began to chuckle as his long legs quickly brought him back up close to the trolley. "This stuff weighs a ton and I've been pushing it for a while now, its so far to the elevators."

"Learn to shoot and next time I'll push the damn trolley," Havian smirked, unhooking a small cylinder from his belt and spinning a dial on it. Rolling it on the ground towards the guards, Havian laughed out loud as the home-made grenade exploded between them and the guards, bringing both Aimee and him down to their knees as the ground shook in anger. "That was a bloody beauty! Maybe not as nice as you, hot-stuff, but nice all the same!"

"Can you just shut the hell up, lecher? We're running for our lives here and all you can do is chat away!"

"Oooh, is the little princess getting angry? I love them when they're feisty," winked Havian,

"This is not the time, Havian!" Aimee screamed, the metal floor crying out in pain as bullets flew by and ricocheted off it, only to spin harmlessly upwards. It was if it were a symphony and each shot was a new note in a dazzling orchestra of flying death. The guards couldn't shoot too accurately at such a distance; their standard-issue weapons were just too cheap and not suitable at all for these kinds of pursuits. Ruger MK IIs were the most readily pistols for the guards as ammunition was plentiful, but even the MGV-176 sub-machine guns that was given to guards in emergency situations weren't anywhere near as accurate or powerful as the old M1 Garand Havian had pinched from the Council's private vault, all they had was a far higher rate-of-fire. It wasn't that the Council didn't have firearms that were more suitable, in fact they had at least one copy of every weapon made between the early 1950s to the late 2010s but when ammunition usage was factored in, the Council found that .22 Long Rifle chambered weapons were the most suitable for the guards.

Throwing another makeshift grenade behind him, Havian shook his head, trying to empty out the sounds of gunfire as he ran. Aimee was almost out of breath but the sight of the elevator, barely eighty yards away was a welcome sight. Gritting her teeth in determination, Aimee pushed the trolley with all her might, willing herself to get there faster. Throwing his rifle back over his shoulder by the strap, Havian added his own strength. Immediately the trolley sped up, almost flying as they hurtled at the elevator doors. Never before had the sleek grey walls and familiar tubular design been more welcome to either of the rebels before.

"Almost there, princess. Just a little more and we'll be sipping ice-cold water together down in the utility room," Havian puffed, flashing a smile as he ran. In all honesty he knew that this would be the Killing Ground now; the elevator would take time to reach them and by then it'll be likely that only bullet-riddled corpses would be waiting as the doors popped open. There was little he could do to prevent that, except maybe make himself useful to the cause just one last time. Taking off his belt of make-shift grenades, Havian readied himself.

The guards, seeing as their prey were about to escape opened fire again, not even bothering to stop as their disc-fed magazines pumped thousands of bullets into the air. The sound of bullets whizzing past their ears became a whirlwind of noise, even blocking out the sound of their footsteps. Pain blossomed in Havian's legs and arms as he took the final steps to the elevator. Hot agony tore through him, a guttural cry of anguish escaping his body even as he threw himself behind Aimee, turning to face the oncoming storm. Havian knew that he stood no hope against such a torrent but this was his only opportunity. Using the last reserves of strength, Havian flung the bandoleer as far as he could. He smiled gently, the adrenaline pumping through his body vanishing with the realisation of what was to come. The bandoleer exploded, taking out part of the corridor's columns and collapsing part of the ceiling, screams erupting from the floor above. Water mains that ran between the floors burst, leaking a great torrent of water down onto the floor so that it spread out further and further. Havian sighed once more before collapsing onto the ground in a bloody pile, blood bubbling on his lips while the expanding pool of water began surround him.

Behind them, the elevator doors slowly opened, revealing Jorge standing in a dark jumpsuit. Taking a few steps out of the elevator, he took in the scene around him in a single glance. Nodding to Aimee, he gestured for her to move behind him even as the remaining guards peeked out from behind the rubble created from the explosion and readied their guns. In that single moment Jorge seemed like a giant to Aimee; standing tall and proud in front of the elevator, absolutely sure of himself as the guard's fire peppered the inside of the lift. In one movement he pulled out a revolver from his hip holster and pumped a few shots down the corridor, causing the guards in pursuit to duck into cover. Aimee pushed the trolley once more until it let out an almighty clang as it made contact with the back of the elevator. Turning, she gasped in horror at the sight of Havian.

Taking the full brunt of a bullet storm meant even body armour would be next to worthless in this situation, and Havian only wore a padded vest which barely blunted the impact of the small .22 rounds. Dozens of bloody wounds peppered him all over, having shredded his jumpsuit until it was barely pieces of ragged cloth. Shards of bone poked through the skin on his left elbow and right shin; the shattered remains of his elbow especially horrific as it seems to drip and fall apart with every gurgling breath Havian took. Aimee could barely stand to watch him struggle just to bring oxygen into his punctured lungs, his eyes full of pain and woe as looked back at her. One especially gruesome hit had opened up the side of his face; ripping his cheek open like a fishmonger guts his produce. Blood quickly pooled up in the hole, filling his mouth with blood so that the poor man had to weakly spit out blood while trying to swallow in air. It tore her heart to shreds just to see Havian like that. From all the people at the Resistance whom Aimee had met and tried to socialise with, Havian had been the one to show her around and who ended up hounding her every footstep. Adrienne had laughed her head off when Aimee had come to her with concerns about his behaviour, waving aside Aimee's worries and telling her to just chill out.

"Y-Y-You're g-gonna be alright... just hang on, we'll get you back to base," Aimee promised as her eyes began to tear up, dropping one knee into the growing pool of blood and holding onto one of Havian's bloody hands, the pinky digit shot clean off.

Jorge placed one hand on Aimee's right shoulder, lightly pulling her away. "Come on Aimee, we've got to get the fuck out of here. Those guards aren't going to stay quiet for much longer."

"We're not leaving him!"

Jorge looked down at Havian's glassy eyes, the stubborn bastard refusing to give up. Jorge had to hand it to him though; Havian certainly knew how to take a bullet for his friends.

"Alright then, we'll take him with us. I'll drag him up and onto the trolley, you try and get some bandages and painkillers. Least we can do is try and stabilise him for now," Jorge stated, hissing as one of the guards pulled out their pistol and shot at him, only missing by a few inches. "Let's go, now!"

Picking up Havian by his arms, Jorge grimaced as the man groaned in pain as he was pulled into the elevator while Aimee frantically opened several boxes on the trolley, pulling out bits and pieces as she went. Smacking the elevator controls with one hand, Jorge dumped Havian on the trolley and got to work immediately with Aimee; ripping off Havian's jumpsuit and wrapping each oozing wound with as many bandages as they could. Tearing off the plastic packaging on a dozen syringes, Jorge whooped with joy when he finally found the right one.

"Here, we go; just give him a little stab in the heart and he should be all set for now!"

"Aren't you being a little too cheerful?" Aimee asked, peering curiously at the syringe. The elevator grinded into movement; the single light flickering as the ancient mechanical unit began to slow ascent. With each passing second they gained a precious head-start on any pursuers but it also brought Havian one more step closer to death. They didn't have much time left until he began to bleed out so Jorge had to take an insane risk. Gripping the syringe carefully just above where he hoped Havian's slowly-dying heart was, Jorge raised the syringe above his shoulder and slammed it back down, piercing straight through the thin fabric of the jumpsuit and into flesh. Immediately Havian's entire body twitched from head-to-toe, his eyes briefly opened before closing again while his hands began to spasm into fists and back again.

"What was that?" Aimee screamed, holding down Havian's arms while looking closely at his face. "What the hell did you inject him with?"

"Something Zohharrah and I talked about during the week. Adrienne thought I should know all the details about that magical liquid, just in case something went wrong during this operation. Dangerous, but works in these situations; a mix of morphine, adrenaline, recombinant erythropoietin and seriac-" The elevator's mechanisms hiccuped, causing Jorge to stop talking and check the monitors above the controls.

"But what does it all mean..." demanded Aimee, but the elevator shuddered to a stop after moving only a single floor.

"What's going on, why'd the elevator stop so soon? Havian's injured!" Aimee jumped towards the controls, but Jorge blocked the way; his build completely blocking any access to the controls.

"We can't go straight down, the guards are definitely tracking this elevator. Zohharrah said we're gonna have to make a few detours first; we're gonna take an elevator up to Floor Twenty-three before heading down again. Zohharrah's waiting for us up there, getting the elevator ready for us."

"Wait, what about Adrienne and Tim? They're stuck without us," Aimee demanded, pointing at the ground beneath them, as if to illustrate her point. At the speed that the elevators ran, it would take far too long for Adrienne and Tim to wait for a lift and meet them.

"We don't have a choice; if we take this back down then we'll be caught by the guards. If we don't, then Adrienne and Tim will have to wait for the elevator to be called back to them," Jorge sprayed a millilitre of morphine into the air before injecting it into Havian's neck, the deathly man sighing as the pain-killing drugs immediately got to work. "We've got to accept the fact that Adrienne has been in these sorts of situations before and probably knows more about what to do then we do. You trust her, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll do what I say and come with me. We've got to get this stuff back to base as soon as possible, but first we need to make sure we're not going to be followed."

Aimee huffed in anger but didn't say anything; she didn't like being treated like a kid, especially by Jorge who wasn't that much older then her, but he did have a point. They had their duty and would perform it; worrying about Adrienne and Tim would just distract them. Not only that; Havian was going to die at this rate and if they stopped or went back then he'd definitely expire before any real attention can be given to him and Aimee couldn't let that happen. She'd noticed how Havian had stepped in front of her, shielding her from the guard's fire and the thoughts that it had provoked inside her were making her head spin.

Jorge noticed the grim look on Aimee's face but said no more; instead he tried to stop his hands from shaking while he reloaded his revolver. In truth he had prepared himself when coming up to meet with Aimee and Havian; whispering words of encouragement, drawing and holstering the revolver quickly and even practising the painful pistol-whip. He'd been hoping Adrienne would have been there to see him, so that she'd think that he was brave or especially tough as he'd calmly walked out of the elevator and casually fired at the guards pinning them. He'd done it, but instead of Adrienne only Aimee and an unconscious Havian had been present and Aimee had been far too preoccupied with Havian's injuries.

Looking down at the rifle lying on the floor, Jorge bent over and picked it up before offering it to Aimee. "Which would you prefer: revolver or rifle?"

Aimee glanced from one gun to the other, before stopping on Havian. "I... don't think I can. I don't want to kill anyone."

"But the guards are going to shoot at you whether or not you have a weapon any way. You may as well arm yourself just in case." Jorge tried to press the revolver into her hand, but Aimee just pulled away.

"It's fine, Jorge. I'll just push the trolley and Havian; you can cover us and do what you've got to do."

Jorge nodded, unclipping a few magazines from Havian's bullet-riddled belt and attaching them to his own. Turning to Aimee, she nodded twice and braced herself to start moving the trolley. Counting down on his hands from the count of five, Jorge pressed the button to open the doors.

The sight of emergency crews and worried civilians met them; the loud noises of shouting and drilling surprising them. A small horde of mechanics had been called to the floor to fix the broken pipe mains with whatever tools they had scrounged up on their way. It wasn't often that so many pipes had to be fixed in one go and the loss of so much water so quickly was especially damaging to the Undercity's infrastructure. Not only did it mean water being cut off from certain areas but it also posed a hazard to those people on the floor below; at the current rate of water gushing out of the pipes and falling below, the entire floor could be flooded with at least five inches of water. If people shut the bulkheads on their doors and if the market area shut down the main entrance, the water could rise even higher. Current estimates stated that the eastern section could have up to two feet of water if doors were being sealed.

Signalling to Aimee to start moving as the first of the mechanics turned to regard the occupants of the elevator, Jorge ran out and turned the rifle on each of the mechanics in turn, sending them into a panic until they broke, running away as fast as they could. Those who had been standing closer to him began to whimper and sat on the floor; their oil-streaked faces begging Jorge not to shoot. Jorge had known some of these people before; he'd stolen their manuals when he was younger and had even bumped into one or two of them during his brief stint working as Adrienne's assistant. Aimee hurtled past them with Havian balanced precariously on the boxes. Jorge waited a minute before running after her, waving back to the mechanics who blew a sigh of relief before radioing the guards and getting back to work. Jorge didn't give a damn about the mechanics; the guards would have a hell of a time trying to catch them now, chasing them from floor-to-floor but would never expect them to go up and up before going all the way to Floor Seven. They were safe.

Nearly an hour of running and threatening had passed before Jorge, Aimee, Zohharrah and the unconscious Havian had all-but flown the now-rickety trolley into the base, blood, tears and sweat pouring from each one respectively. It had been a breeze for the younger pair to meet up with Zohharrah at Floor Twenty-one; only one guard ever bumped into them and at the sight of the M1 in Jorge's hands, he had turned tail and fled as fast as his short legs would carry him. They occasionally heard passing remarks and radio reports about a skirmish in progress down in the lower floors; the news had fed them hope and spirit, each update reminding them that Adrienne and Tim were still fighting back. It had been a tough operation for them and adapting to the new plan had taken a lot out of all of them. Havian had to be dealt with; his condition worsening progressively as they made their way back home.

Rolling the trolley through the warehouse's main doors, Zohharrah whipped her head around, looking around while Jorge levered the door back into its locked position using the hand-crank.

"Where the fuck is Jeremiah?" Zohharrah demanded, her every word dripping with rage. "How the hell am I supposed to operate on this arse unless someone plays nurse for me."

"Maybe he's gone to work or something; the Medi-staff would be calling an emergency meeting after the break-in so he's probably over with them," offered Aimee, leaning over to check Havian's wounds. Probing the bloodied bandages, she peeled back to reveal the wound on his left arm. "And it looks like his bleeding has either slowed down or stopped."

Jorge ran over to her and looked down at the deathly-pale gunman, checking his pulse against the cracked clock on the wall closest to them. "His heart is pumping the blood too slowly, its at a pretty dangerous level now. Zohharrah, how much longer does he have?"

"No idea. The formula you gave him earlier helped him stay alive this long but I really don't know how we're going to deal with this; he's lost far too much blood and judging by the wounds on his chest its fair to say most of his organs have been pierced." Zohharrah sighed, then gestured to Jorge to help her. Pale as bone, Havian was carted into the infirmary by Jorge and Zohharrah, the latter immediately donning an almost-white coat and rubber gloves.

Jorge threw down his weapons and put on his own pair of gloves before waving Aimee away from the partitioned-off area of the warehouse. "We've got to work quickly and stabilise him somehow; can you stand watch near the front and wait until Adrienne or someone else comes along?"

"I guess..." Aimee said, her face downcast. Havian could die at any second now and there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all.

* * *

"Is he going to be okay?"

"I did the best I could but I don't really think it'll make a difference in the end, miss. He's to die in any case. Ain't like the NCR to forgive criminals; he'll be strung up and left for the geckos."

Ears? Check. Two ears still working, as far as he could tell.

"He isn't a criminal! It was a set-up, right from the start; the mine had to be blown to get rid of the raiders that the Dear Johns were supplying," the first voice replied indignantly. That was Rain's voice and she didn't sound pleased at all.

Brain? Check. If he could still recognise people and access memories then his brain was working. Or at least partially working.

"Not according to the President. But anyway, I'm just a surgeon. I've no interest in politics or the such," the second voice answered. Opening his eyes, Wreythe saw a tall man with spidery fingers and a white beard putting away a pair of pliers and a roll of bandages.

Eyes? Check. Focus was still a bit off but it was good enough for now.

Fingers? Still attached; all ten of them reporting no damage.

Legs?

Dyson Wreythe sat up quickly, throwing aside the rough-spun blanket and throwing his legs over the side of the bed then stood up, slightly shaking as he did so. Looking around him, he realised he was in hospital room; heart and pulse monitors beeped happily along while moans could be heard from outside the private room. The spidery doctor took no notice of Wreythe and left the room promptly, his white lab coat disappearing behind him. Rain barely stopped herself from squealing as she jumped at him, throwing them both back onto the bed.

"Ow. Ow. Ow!" Wreythe weakly thrashed against Rain as her body pressed down onto his bruised and battered flesh, but she grew even more insistent, mashing her lips against his in a lust-filled fury. Wreythe was momentarily blinded by her thick, red hair as it blocked his vision like a blanket of scarlet. "I still hurt everywhere," Wreythe complained as Rain broke for air, an excited grin on her face.

"Stop whining, we've got so much to do and so little time to do it!" Rain once again began to make-out with the poor man, his brain unable to cope with the sheer pain he felt from his numerous injuries but the fantastic feeling of the Rain's moderately-sized breasts on his naked chest. She changed her clothes at some point and only wore a pale red dress that beautifully matched her hair. Kicking off the pair of scuffed heels she wore, Rain straddled Wreythe's body, sitting on him like one would a horse before continuing.

"Tandi's sentenced you to death, the mob wants to finish you off and Colonel Meyes is ordering a door-to-door search for you. By sunset you'll be dead unless we do something, and do it quickly. I don't mean that!" Rain slapped Wreythe's hands away from her hips. "We've got to get out of here."

Wreythe leaned his head back, his hands behind his head as they rested on the pillow. "Out of Shady Sands? Yes. Out of the NCR? Not yet. I didn't come all the way from East Coast just to be killed or kicked out immediately; got to find something."

"What's that?"

"Tax invoices. Remember that tape that Ulysses and I were searching for and found just before Tandi kicked us out of the NCR last time? Well, after you'd be ordered to report on everything that had happened while you'd travelled with us, a few of your boys brought Ulysses and I to Beverly Hills. They'd shown us to this broken-down manor; its walls barely standing and almost all of the furniture gone. We'd started searching through the rubble until I found this videotape and a letter. Uhhh..." Wreythe paused, seeing the confused look in Rain's eyes. "It's like a disc; it holds images and videos but at a quality that degrades quickly over time unless it's kept safe. Luckily it was inside a sealed safe so we hoped it was still viewable. Turned out it was but I had to go find a compatible playback device. Found one all the way in the east after chasing up rumours. Incredible stuff on it; that's why I had to get back over here so damned quickly."

"Why's that?"

"Because Ulysses disappeared awfully quickly after we checked out the manor and I think he's got something that was packaged together with the letter and video tape. A key-card or the like; a security clearance that would enable him access to the facility." Wreythe's eyes hardened, full of an iron-hard intensity. "He's got the key, I've got the lock. I need to find him and get the key before he finds me first. Otherwise I need to get back to that manor and find whatever invoices haven't been eroded by time and see if I can find out where the makers of the key-card and video tape had been based. Hopefully there will be back-up copies and similar items over there."

Rain pulled away then laid on Wreythe with her left elbow on his chest, supporting her chin as she thought. "So we're going for another adventure then?"

"Guess so, baby-doll. Now, we're all my gear? Can't go escaping from Shady Sands with nothing but my cock in my hands."

"Or my hands," Rain added, sticking out her tongue at Wreythe before jumping off him. Walking to the other side of the room, Rain kicked open a metal chest, revealing Wreythe's clothes, weapons, ammunition packs and other goods. "Now, tell me everything you know about this facility."


End file.
